DOUBLE 
HARNESS 


ANTHONY 
HOPE 


To  see  Anthony  Hope  as  a  writer  of  a  g 
problem  novel  is    to  see   him  in  a  new 
light,     and     to     read     Double     Harness 
(McClure,   Phillips   8c  Co.)   is  to  assure, 
vourself  of  considerably  more  than  thd 
casual  pleasure  which  attends  the^maji 
ing   of   a  new  book.     While  Mr.  Haw- 
kins has   dwelt   upon   the  most  serious 
problem     of     life — the     marriage    vow 
and    the   preservation  of    the    home — 
he  has  done  it  with   so  much  delicacy 
ard  honesty  of   purpose    that    he  does 
r.ot  offend    in  any  particular.     Doub  e 
Harness  introduces  you  to  a   group  of 
people  who  for  the  time  being  become 
your    world.        First      in      importance 
are     Grantley     Imason    and    his    wife 
Sibylla.      She    is    a  dream  woman,   an 
idealist — unreal  but  wonderfully  inter- 
esting;    while   he   is   one   of    the   most 
attractive  characters  that  Mr.  Hawkins 
has    ever    drawn.       Sweet,    indeed,    is 
the  courtship  of  these  two.      Marriage, 
however,     brings     with    it    a     shatter-^ 
ing  of  ideals,  and  Sibylla  for  no  good> 
reason  becomes  a  woman  with  a  griev- 
ance;   while   Grantley   waits   patiently 
and  grimly  for  her  to  see  and  to  under- 
stand things  as  they  really  are.     There 
is     a    dramatic     and    well-nigh    tragic 
.scene  one  stormy  night  at  a  little  inn 
icalled  "Sailors'  Rest,"  in  which  her  hus- 
band saves  her  from  herself  and  from  an- 
other.   Then  there  are  half  a  dozen  other 
admirable  types  whose  inner  lives  are 
analyzed  for  the  benefit  of  the  reader. 
While    some    persons    may    look    upon 
Double    Harness    as    a    satire,    there    is 
nothing  satirical  about  it.     It  is  written 
with  such  breadth   of   sympathy   with 
human  nature;  and  such  charity  for  its 
frailties,  that    the    reader  is    left   in    a 
hopeful  frame  of  mind,   being  assured 
that  there  is  a  happy  solution  for  every 
sex  problem. 

a  n  ftl/i    /i  n  hi  A   "TT 


AU  "•"  AU 


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]5g2i|! 

gJig^i 
]«g>H)j( 


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t 

M 

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gSfSf 


Alg4tg 


gSgS 

ill  la  ^fa 


DOUBLE  HARNESS 

BY 

ANTHONY  HOPE 


NEW  YORK 

McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  &  CO. 

MCMIV 


t4393 
Ac 


•••••.•• 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
ANTHONY   HOPE    HAWKINS 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER    ONE 

SOME    VIEWS    OF   THE   INSTITUTION 3 

CHAPTER    TWO 

THE   FAIRY   RIDE i4 

CHAPTER    THREE 

THE   WORLDLY   MIND 26 

CHAPTER    FOUR 

INITIATION 38 

CHAPTER    FIVE 

THE   BIRTH    OF   STRIFE .     51 

CHAPTER    SIX 

NOT    PEACE,  BUT   A    SWORD 65 

CHAPTER    SEVEN 

A   VINDICATION    OF   CONSCIENCE 77 

CHAPTER    EIGHT 

IDEALS    AND    ASPIRATIONS 90 

CHAPTER    NINE 

A   SUCCESSFUL    MISSION 104 

CHAPTER    TEN 

THE    FLINTY   WALL 119 


vi  CONTENTS 

»AOE 

CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

THE    OLIVE    BRANCH 133 

CHAPTER    TWELVE 

IMAGES   AND    THEIR   WORK 147 

CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

THE    DEAD    AND    ITS   DEAD 161 

CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

FOR    HIS    LOVE    AND    HIS    QUARREL 176 

CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

IN   THE   TEETH    OF   THE    STORM 193 

CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

THE    UPPER   AND    THE   NETHER   STONE    ....   209 

CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

WANDERING   WITS 224 

CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN 

ROSEATE    HUES 238 

CHAPTER    NINETEEN 

IN    THE    CORNER 253 

CHAPTER    TWENTY 

THE    HOUR    OF   WRATH 267 

CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

AN    UNCOMPROMISING    EXPRESSION 281 

CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

ASPIRATIONS    AND    COMMON-SENSE 294 


CONTENTS  vii 


PAGE 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE 

A   THING   OF   FEAR 3o9 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-FOUR 

FRIENDS 320 

CHAPTER    TWENTY-FIVE 

PICKING    UP    THE    PIECES 337 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-SIX 

THE    GREAT   WRONG 352 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-SEVEN 

SAMPLES    OF   THE    BULK 368 

CHAPTER    TWENTY-EIGHT 

TO    LIFE   AND    LIGHT   AGAIN 3»3 

CHAPTER    TWENTY-NINE 

WITH    OPEN    EYES 398 


DOUBLE    HARNESS 


CHAPTER  ONE 

SOME   VIEWS    OF   THE   INSTITUTION 

THE  house — a  large,  plain,  white  building  with  no 
architectural  pretensions — stood  on  a  high  swell 
of  the  downs  and  looked  across  the  valley  in 
which  Milldean  village  lay,  and  thence  over  rolling 
stretches  of  close  turf,  till  the  prospect  ended  in  the  gleam 
of  waves  and  the  silver-grey  mist  that  lay  over  the  sea. 
It  was  a  fine,  open,  free  view.  The  air  was  fresh,  with 
a  touch  of  salt  in  it,  and  made  the  heat  of  the  sun  more 
than  endurable — even  welcome  and  nourishing.  Tom 
Courtland,  raising  himself  from  the  grass  and  sitting  up 
straight,  gave  utterance  to  what  his  surroundings  declared 
to  be  a  very  natural  exclamation: 

"What  a  bore  to  leave  this  and  go  back  to  town!" 

"Stay  a  bit  longer,  old  chap,"  urged  his  host,  Grantley 
Imason,  who  lay  full  length  on  his  back  on  the  turf,  with 
a  straw  hat  over  his  eyes  and  nose,  and  a  pipe,  long  gone 
out,  between  his  teeth. 

"Back  to  my  wife!"  Courtland  went  on,  without  notic- 
ing the  invitation. 

With  a  faint  sigh  Grantley  Imason  sat  up,  put  his  hat 
on  his  head,  and  knocked  out  his  pipe.  He  glanced  at  his 
friend  with  a  look  of  satirical  amusement. 

"You're  encouraging  company  for  a  man  who's  just  got 
engaged,"  he  remarked. 

"It's  the  devil  of  a  business — sort  of  thing  some  of  those 
fellows  would  write  a  book  about.  But  it's  not  worth  a 
book.  A  page  of  strong  and  indiscriminate  swearing — 
that's  what  it's  worth,  Grantley." 

Grantley  sighed  again  as  he  searched  for  his  tobacco- 


4  DOUBLE    HARNESS 

pouch.     The  sigh  seemed  to  hover  doubtfully  between  a 

faint  sympathy  and  a  resigned  boredom. 

"And  no  end  to  it — none  in  sight !  I  don't  know  whether 
it's  legal  cruelty  to  throw  library  books  and  so  on  at  your 
husband's  head " 

"Depends  on  whether  you  ever  hit  him,  I  should  think; 
and  they'd  probably  conclude  a  woman  never  would." 

"But  what  an  ass  I  should  look  if  I  went  into  court 
with  that  sort  of  story !" 

"Yes,  you  would  look  an  ass,"  Grantley  agreed. 
"Doesn't  she  give  you — well,  any  other  chance,  you 
know?" 

"Not  she !  My  dear  fellow,  she's  most  aggressively  the 
other  way." 

"Then  why  don't  you  give  her  a  chance?" 

"What,  you  mean ?" 

"Am  I  so  very  cryptic?"  murmured  Grantley,  as  he  lit 
his  pipe. 

"I'm  a  Member  of  Parliament." 

"Yes,  I  forgot.     That's  a  bit  awkward." 

"Besides,  there  are  the  children.  I  don't  want  my  chil- 
dren to  think  their  father  a  scoundrel."  He  paused,  and 
added  grimly:  "And  I  don't  want  them  to  be  left  to  their 
mother's  bringing-up  either." 

"Then  we  seem  to  have  exhausted  the  resources  of  the 
law." 

"The  children  complicate  it  so.  Wait  till  you  have 
some  of  your  own,  Grantley." 

"Look  here — steady!"  Grantley  expostulated.  "Don't 
be  in  such  a  hurry  to  give  me  domestic  encumbrances.  The 
bloom's  still  on  my  romance,  old  chap.  Talking  of  chil- 
dren to  a  man  who's  only  been  engaged  a  week!"  His 
manner  resumed  its  air  of  languid  sympathy  as  he  went  on: 
"You  needn't  see  much  of  her,  Tom,  need  you?" 


SOME   VIEWS  5 

"Oh,  needn't  I  ?"  grumbled  Courtland.  He  was  a  rather 
short,  sturdily  built  man,  with  a  high  colour  and  stiff  black 
hair  which  stood  up  on  his  head.  His  face  was  not  wanting 
in  character,  but  a  look  of  plaintive  worry  beset  it.  "You 
try  living  in  the  same  house  with  a  woman — with  a  woman 
like  that,  I  mean!" 

"Thanks  for  the  explanation,"  laughed  Grantley. 

"I  must  go  and  wire  when  I  shall  be  back,  or  Harriet'll 
blow  the  roof  off  over  that.  You  come  too ;  a  stroll'll  do 
you  good." 

Grantley  Imason  agreed;  and  the  two,  leaving  the  gar- 
den by  a  little  side  gate,  took  their  way  along  the  steep 
road  which  led  down  to  the  village,  and  rose  again  on  the 
other  side  of  it,  to  join  the  main  highway  across  the  downs 
a  mile  and  a  half  away.  The  lane  was  narrow,  steep,  and 
full  of  turns;  the  notice  "Dangerous  to  Cyclists"  gave  warn- 
ing of  its  character.  At  the  foot  of  it  stood  the  Old  Mill 
House,  backing  on  to  a  little  stream.  Farther  on  lay  the 
church  and  the  parsonage ;  opposite  to  them  was  the  post- 
office,  which  was  also  a  general  shop  and  also  had  rooms 
to  let  to  visitors.  The  village  inn,  next  to  the  post-office, 
and  a  dozen  or  so  of  labourers'  cottages  exhausted  the 
shelter  of  the  little  valley,  though  the  parish  embraced  sev- 
eral homesteads  scattered  about  in  dips  of  the  downs,  and 
a  row  of  small  new  red  villas  at  the  junction  with  the  main 
road.  Happily  these  last,  owing  to  the  lie  of  the  ground, 
were  out  of  sight  from  Grantley  Imason's  windows,  no 
less  than  from  the  village  itself. 

"And  that's  the  home  of  the  fairy  princess?"  asked 
Courtland  as  they  passed  Old  Mill  House,  a  rambling, 
rather  broken-down  old  place,  covered  with  creepers. 

"Yes;  she  and  her  brother  moved  there  when  the  old 
rector  died.  You  may  have  heard  of  him — the  Chidding- 
fold  who  was  an  authority  on  Milton.      No?     Well,  he 


6  DOUBLE    HARNESS 

was,  anyhow.  Rather  learned  all  round,  I  fancy — Fellow 
of  John's.  But  he  took  this  living  and  settled  down  for 
life;  and  when  he  died  the  children  were  turned  out  of  the 
rectory  and  took  Old  Mill  House.  They've  got  an  old 
woman — well,  she's  not  very  old — with  the  uneuphonious 
name  of  Mumple  living  with  them.  She's  been  a  sort  of 
nurse-housekeeper-companion:  a  mixed  kind  of  position 
— breakfast  and  midday  dinner  with  the  family,  but  didn't 
join  his  reverence's  evening  meal.  You  know  the  sort  of 
thing.  She's  monstrously  fat,  but  Sibylla  loves  her.  And 
the  new  rector  moved  in  a  fortnight  ago,  and  everybody 
hates  him.  And  the  temporary  curate,  who  was  here  be- 
cause the  new  rector  was  at  Bournemouth  for  his  health, 
and  who  lodged  over  the  post-office,  has  just  gone,  and 
everybody's  dashed  glad  to  see  the  last  of  him.  And  that's 
all  the  news  of  the  town.  And,  behold,  Tom,  I'm  the 
squire  of  it,  and  every  man,  woman,  or  child  in  it  is,  by 
unbroken  tradition  and  custom,  entitled  to  have  as  much 
port  wine  out  of  my  cellar  as  his,  her,  or  its  state  of  health 
may  happen  to  require." 

He  threw  off  this  chatter  in  a  gay  self-contented  fashion, 
and  Tom  Courtland  looked  at  him  with  affectionate  envy. 
The  world  had  been  very  good  to  him,  and  he,  in  return, 
was  always  amiable  to  it.  He  had  been  born  heir  and 
only  child  of  his  father;  had  inherited  the  largest  share 
in  a  solid  old-fashioned  banking-house ;  was  now  a  director 
of  the  great  joint-stock  undertaking  in  which  the  family 
business  had  consented  to  merge  itself  on  handsome  terms; 
had  just  as  much  work  to  do  as  he  liked,  and  possessed, 
and  always  had  enjoyed,  more  money  than  he  needed.  He 
was  thirty-three  now,  and  had  been  a  social  favourite  even 
before  he  left  school.  If  it  was  difficult  to  say  what  posi- 
tive gain  his  existence  had  been  to  society,  there  was  no 
doubt  that  his  extinction  would  at  any  time  have  been  con- 
sidered a  distinct  loss. 


SOME  VIEWS  7 

"A  country  squire  with  a  rosy-cheeked  country  girl  for 
wife!    That's  a  funny  ending  for  you,  Grantley." 

"She's  not  rosy-cheeked — and  it's  not  an  ending — and 
there's  the  post-office.  Go  in,  and  be  as  civil  as  you  can  to 
Lady  Harriet." 

A  smile  of  pity,  unmistakably  mingled  with  contempt, 
followed  Courtland  into  the  shop.  The  tantrums  of  other 
men's  wives  are  generally  received  with  much  the  same 
mixture  of  scepticism  and  disdain  as  the  witticisms  of  other 
parents'  children.  Both  are  seen  large,  very  large  indeed, 
by  sufferers  and  admirers  respectively. 

The  obligation  of  being  as  civil  as  he  could  to  his  wife 
caused  Courtland  to  take  three  or  four  minutes  in  framing 
his  telegram,  and  when  he  came  out  he  found  Grantley 
seated  on  the  bench  that  stood  by  the  inn  and  conversing 
with  a  young  man  who  wore  a  very  old  coat  and  rough 
tweed  knickerbockers.  Grantley  introduced  him  as  Mr. 
Jeremy  Chiddingfold,  and  Courtland  knew  that  he  was 
Sibylla's  brother.  Sibylla  herself  he  had  not  yet  seen. 
Jeremy  had  a  shock  of  sandy  hair,  a  wide  brow,  and  a  wide 
mouth;  his  eyes  were  rather  protuberant,  and  his  nose 
turned  up,  giving  prominence  to  the  nostrils. 

"No  family  likeness,  I  hope?"  Courtland  found  him- 
self thinking;  for  though  Jeremy  was  a  vigorous,  if  not  a 
handsome,  masculine  type,  the  lines  were  far  from  being 
those  of  feminine  beauty. 

"And  he's  enormously  surprised  and  evidently  rather 
shocked  to  hear  I'm  going  to  marry  his  sister  —  oh,  we 
can  talk  away,  Jeremy;  Tom  Courtland  doesn't  matter. 
He  knows  all  the  bad  there  is  about  me,  and  wants  to  know 
all  the  good  there  is  about  Sibylla." 

One  additional  auditor  by  no  means  embarrassed  Jer- 
emy; perhaps  not  a  hundred  would  have. 

"Though,  of  course,  somebody  must  have  married  her, 


8  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

you  know,"  Grantley  went  on,  smiling  and  stretching  him- 
self luxuriously  like  a  sleek  indolent  cat. 

"I  hate  marriage  altogether!"  declared  Jeremy. 

Courtland  turned  to  him  with  a  quick  jerk  of  his  head. 

"The  deuce  you  do!"  he  said,  laughing.  "It's  early  in 
life  to  have  come  to  that  conclusion,  Mr.  Chiddingfold." 

"Yes,  yes,  Jeremy,  quite  so;  but "  Grantley  began. 

"It's  an  invention  of  priests,"  Jeremy  insisted  heatedly. 

Courtland,  scarred  with  fifteen  years'  experience  of  the 
institution  thus  roundly  attacked,  was  immensely  diverted, 
though  his  own  feelings  gave  a  rather  bitter  twist  to  his 
mirth.  Grantley  argued,  or  rather  pleaded,  with  a  decep- 
tive gravity: 

"But  if  you  fall  in  love  with  a  girl?" 

"Heaven  forbid!" 

"Well,  but  the  world  must  be  peopled,  Jeremy." 

"Marriage  isn't  necessary  to  that,  is  it?" 

"Oho!"  whistled  Courtland. 

"We  may  concede  the  point — in  theory,"  said  Grant- 
ley;  "in  practice  it's  more  difficult." 

"Because  people  won't  think  clearly  and  bravely!"  cried 
Jeremy,  with  a  thump  on  the  bench.  "Because  they're 
hidebound,  and,  as  I  say,  the  priests  heaven-and-hell  them 
till  they  don't  know  where  they  are." 

"Heaven-and-hell  them!  Good  phrase,  Jeremy!  You 
speak  feelingly.  Your  father,  perhaps — ?  Oh,  excuse  me, 
I'm  one  of  the  family  now." 

"My  father?  Not  a  bit.  Old  Mumples  now,  if  you 
like.  However  that's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I'm 
going  on  the  lines  of  pure  reason.  And  what  is  pure  rea- 
son?" 

The  elder  men  looked  at  one  another,  smiled,  and  shook 
their  heads. 

"We  don't  know;  it's  no  use  pretending  we  do.  You 
tell  us,  Jeremy,"  said  Grantley. 


SOME  VIEWS  9 

"It's  just  nature — nature — nature  !  Get  back  to  that, 
and  you're  on  solid  ground.  Why,  apart  from  anything 
else,  how  can  you  expect  marriage,  as  we  have  it,  to  succeed 
when  women  are  what  they  are  ?  And  haven't  they  always 
been  the  same  ?  Of  course  they  have.  Read  history,  read 
fiction  (though  it  isn't  worth  reading),  read  science;  and 
look  at  the  world  round  about  you." 

He  waved  his  arm  extensively,  taking  in  much  more  than 
the  valley  in  which  most  of  his  short  life  had  been  spent. 

"If  I'd  thought  as  you  do  at  your  age,"  said  Courtland, 
"I  should  have  kept  out  of  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"And  I  should  have  kept  out  of  a  lot  of  scrapes,"  added 
Grantley. 

"Of  course  you  would!"  snapped  Jeremy. 

That  point  needed  no  elaboration. 

"But  surely  there  are  exceptions  among  women,  Jer- 
emy?" Grantley  pursued  appealingly.  "Consider  my  po- 
sition!" 

"What  is  man?"  demanded  Jeremy.  "Well,  let  me  rec- 
ommend you  to  read  Haeckel !" 

"Never  mind  man.  Tell  us  more  about  woman,"  urged 
Grantley. 

"Oh,  lord,  I  suppose  you're  thinking  of  Sibylla?" 

"I  own  it,"  murmured  Grantley.  "You  know  her  so 
well,  you  see." 

Descending  from  the  heights  of  scientific  generalisation 
and  from  the  search  after  that  definition  of  man  for  which 
he  had  been  in  the  end  obliged  to  refer  his  listeners  to  an- 
other authority,  Jeremy  lost  at  the  same  time  his  gravity 
and  vehemence.  He  surprised  Courtland  by  showing  him- 
self owner  of  a  humorous  and  attractive  smile. 

"You'd  rather  define  man,  perhaps,  than  Sibylla?"  sug- 
gested Grantley. 

"Sibylla's  all  right,  if  you  know  how  to  manage  her." 


io  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Just  what  old  Lady  Trederwyn  used  to  say  to  me  about 
Harriet,"  Courtland  whispered  to  Grantley. 

"But  it  needs  a  bit  of  knowing.  She's  got  the  deuce  of 
a  temper — old  Mumples  knows  that.  Well,  Mumples  has 
got  a  temper  too.  They  used  to  have  awful  rows — do  still 
now  and  then.  Sibylla  used  to  fly  out  at  Mumples,  then 
Mumples  sat  on  Sibylla,  and  then,  when  it  was  all  over, 
they'd  generally  have  a  new  and  independent  row  about 
which  had  been  right  and  which  wrong  in  the  old  row." 

"Not  content  with  a  quiet  consciousness  of  rectitude,  as 
a  man  would  be?" 

"Consciousness  of  rectitude?  Lord,  it  wasn't  that! 
That  would  have  been  all  right.  It  was  just  the  other  way 
round.  They  both  knew  they  had  tempers,  and  Mumples 
is  infernally  religious  and  Sibylla's  generous  to  the  point 
of  idiocy  in  my  opinion.  So  after  a  row,  when  Sibylla 
had  cheeked  Mumples  and  told  her  to  go  to  the  devil  (so 
to  speak),  and  Mumples  had  sent  her  to  bed,  or  thumped 
her,  or  something,  you  know " 

"Let  us  not  go  too  deep  into  family  tragedies,  Jeremy." 

"Why,  when  it  had  all  settled  down,  and  the  governor 
and  I  could  hear  ourselves  talking  quietly  again " 

"About  marriage  and  that  sort  of  question?" 

"They  began  to  have  conscience.  Each  would  have  it 
borne  in  on  her  that  she  was  wrong.  Sibylla  generally 
started  it.  She'd  go  weeping  to  Mumples,  taking  all  her 
own  things  and  any  of  mine  that  were  lying  about  handy, 
and  laying  them  at  Mumples'  feet,  and  saying  she  was  the 
wickedest  girl  alive,  and  why  hadn't  Mumples  pitched  into 
her  a  lot  more,  and  that  she  really  loved  Mumples  better 
than  anything  on  earth.  Then  Mumples  would  weigh  in, 
and  call  Sibylla  the  sweetest  and  meekest  lamb  on  earth, 
and  say  that  she  loved  Sibylla  more  than  anything  on  earth, 
and  that  she — Mumples — was  the  worst-tempered  and  cru- 


SOME  VIEWS  ii 

ellest  and  unjustest  woman  alive,  not  fit  to  be  near  such  an 
angel  as  Sibylla.  Then  Sibylla  used  to  say  that  was  rot, 
and  Mumples  said  it  wasn't.  And  Sibylla  declared  Mum- 
pies  only  said  it  to  wound  her,  and  Mumples  got  hurt  be- 
cause Sibylla  wouldn't  forgive  her,  when  Sibylla,  of  course, 
wanted  Mumples  to  forgive  her.  And  after  half  an  hour 
of  that  sort  of  thing,  it  was  as  likely  as  not  that  they'd  have 
quarrelled  worse  than  ever,  and  the  whole  row  would  begin 
over  again." 

Grantley  lay  back  and  laughed. 

"A  bit  rough  on  you  to  give  your  things  to — er — Mum- 
ples?" suggested  Courtland. 

"Just  like  Sibylla — just  like  any  woman,  I  expect," 
opined  Jeremy,  but  with  a  more  resigned  and  better-tem- 
pered air.  His  reminiscences  had  evidently  amused  him- 
self as  well  as  his  listeners. 

"Wouldn't  it  have  been  better  to  have  a  preceptress  of 
more  equable  temper?"  asked  Grantley. 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  really  wrong  with  Mumples;  we're 
both  awfully  fond  of  her.  Besides  she's  had  such  beastly 
hard  luck.     Hasn't  Sibylla  told  you  about  that,  Imason?" 

"No,  nothing." 

"Her  husband  was  sent  to  quod,  you  know — got  twenty 
years." 

"Twenty  years!    By  Jingo!" 

"Yes.  He  tried  to  murder  a  man — a  man  who  had 
swindled  him.  Mumples  says  he  did  it  all  in  a  passion; 
but  it  seems  to  have  been  a  cold  sort  of  passion,  because  he 
waited  twelve  hours  for  him  before  he  knifed  him.  And  at 
the  trial  he  couldn't  even  prove  the  swindling,  so  he  got  it 
pretty  hot." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"No,  he's  alive.  He's  to  get  out  in  about  three  years. 
Mumples  is  waiting  for  him." 


12  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Poor  old  woman!     Does  she  go  and  see  him?" 

"She  used  to.  She  hasn't  for  years  now.  I  believe  he 
won't  have  her — I  don't  know  why.  The  governor  was 
High  Sheriff's  chaplain  at  the  time,  so  he  got  to  know 
Mumples,  and  took  her  on.  She's  been  with  us  ever  since, 
and  she  can  stay  as  long  as  she  likes." 

"What  things  one  comes  across!"  sighed  Tom  Court- 
land. 

Grantley  had  looked  grave  for  a  moment,  but  he  smiled 
again  as  he  said: 

"After  all,  though,  you've  not  told  me  how  to  manage 
Sibylla.  I'm  not  Mumples — I  can't  thump  her.  I  should 
be  better  than  Mumples  in  one  way,  though.  If  I  did,  I 
should  be  dead  sure  to  stick  to  it  that  I  was  right." 

"You'd  stick  to  it  even  if  you  didn't  think  so,"  observed 
Courtland. 

For  a  moment  the  remark  seemed  to  vex  Grantley,  and 
to  sober  him.  He  spent  a  few  seconds  evidently  reflecting 
on  it. 

"Well,  I  hope  not,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  at  any  rate 
I  should  think  so  generally." 

"Then  you  could  mostly  make  her  think  so.  But  if  it 
wasn't  true,  you  might  feel  a  brute." 

"So  I  might,.  Jeremy." 

"And  it  mightn't  be  permanently  safe.  She  sees  things 
uncommonly  sharp  sometimes.     Well,  I  must  be  off." 

"Going  back  to  Haeckel?" 

Jeremy  nodded  gravely.  He  was  not  susceptible  to  ridi- 
cule on  the  subject  of  his  theories.  The  two  watched  him 
stride  away  towards  Old  Mill  House  with  decisive  vigor- 
ous steps. 

"Rum  product  for  a  country  parsonage,  Grantley." 

"Oh,  he's  not  a  product;  he's  only  an  embryo.  But  1 
think  he's  a  promising  one,  and  he's  richly  amusing." 


SOME  VIEWS  13 

"Yes,  and  I  wonder  how  you're  going  to  manage  Miss 
Sibylla !" 

Grantley  laughed  easily.  "My  poor  old  chap,  you  can't 
be  expected  to  take  a  cheerful  view.  Poor  old  Tom !  God 
bless  you,  old  chap !     Let's  go  home  to  tea." 

As  they  walked  by  the  parsonage  a  bicycle  came  whiz- 
zing through  the  open  garden-gate.  It  was  propelled  by 
a  girl  of  fifteen  or  thereabouts — a  slim  long-legged  child, 
almost  gaunt  in  her  immaturity,  and  lamentably  grown  out 
of  her  frock.  She  cried  shrill  greeting  to  Grantley,  and 
went  off  down  the  street,  displaying  her  skill  to  whosoever 
would  look  by  riding  with  her  arms  akimbo. 

"Another  local  celebrity,"  said  Grantley.  "Dora  Hut- 
ting, the  new  parson's  daughter.  That  she  should  have 
come  to  live  in  the  village  is  a  gross  personal  affront  to 
Jeremy  Chiddingfold.  He's  especially  incensed  by  her 
lengthy  stretch  of  black  stockings,  always,  as  he  maintains, 
with  a  hole  in  them." 

Courtland  laughed  inattentively. 

"I  hope  Harriet'll  get  that  wire  in  good  time,"  he  said. 

No  remark  came  into  Grantley's  mind,  unless  it  were 
to  tell  his  friend  that  he  was  a  fool  to  stand  what  he  did 
from  the  woman.  But  what  was  the  use  of  that?  Tom 
Courtland  knew  his  own  business  best.  Grantley  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  but  held  his  peace. 


CHAPTER    TWO 

THE    FAIRY    RIDE 

COURTLAND  went  off  early  next  morning  in  the 
dog-cart  to  Fairhaven  station — no  railway  line 
ran  nearer  Milldean — and  Grantley  Imason  spent 
the  morning  lounging  about  his  house,  planning  what  im- 
provements could  be  made  and  what  embellishments  pro- 
vided against  the  coming  of  Sibylla.  He  enjoyed  this  pot- 
tering both  for  its  own  sake  and  because  it  was  connected 
with  the  thought  of  the  girl  he  loved.  For  he  was  in  love 
— as  much  in  love,  it  seemed  to  him,  as  a  man  could  well 
be.  "And  I  ought  to  know,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  of 
reminiscence,  his  mind  going  back  to  earlier  affairs  of  the 
heart,  more  or  less  serious,  which  had  been  by  no  means 
lacking  in  his  career.  He  surveyed  them  without  remorse, 
though  one  or  two  might  reasonably  have  evoked  that  emo- 
tion, and  with  no  more  regret  than  lay  in  confessing  that 
he  had  shared  the  follies  common  to  his  age  and  his  posi- 
tion. But  he  found  great  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that 
Sibylla  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  of  the  persons 
concerned.  She  had  known  none  of  them;  she  was  in  no 
sense  of  the  same  set  with  any  one  of  the  five  or  six  women 
of  whom  he  was  thinking;  her  surroundings  had  always 
been  quite  different  from  theirs.  She  came  into  his  life 
something  entirely  fresh,  new,  and  unconnected  with  the 
past.  Herein  lay  a  great  deal  of  the  charm  of  this  latest, 
this  final  affair.  For  it  was  to  be  final — for  his  love's  sake, 
for  his  honour's  sake,  and  also  because  it  seemed  time  for 
such  finality  in  that  ordered  view  of  life  and  its  stages  to 
which  his  intellect  inclined  him.     There  was  something 

«4 


THE  FAIRY  RIDE  15 

singularly  fortunate  in  the  chance  which  enabled  him  to 
suit  his  desire  to  this  conception,  to  find  the  two  things  in 
perfect  harmony,  to  act  on  rational  lines  with  such  a  full 
and  even  eager  assent  of  his  feelings. 

He  reminded  himself,  with  his  favourite  shrug,  that  to 
talk  of  chance  was  to  fall  into  an  old  fallacy;  but  the  sense 
of  accident  remained.  The  thing  had  been  so  entirely  un- 
planned. He  had  meant  to  buy  a  place  in  the  North;  it 
was  only  when  the  one  he  wanted  had  been  snapped  up 
by  somebody  else  that  the  agents  succeeded  in  persuading 
him  to  come  and  look  at  the  house  at  Milldean.  It  hap- 
pened to  take  his  fancy,  and  he  bought  it.  Then  he  hap- 
pened to  be  out  of  sorts,  and  stayed  down  there  an  un- 
broken month,  instead  of  coming  only  from  Saturday  to 
Monday.  Again,  Sibylla  and  Jeremy  had  meant  to  go 
away  when  the  rector  died,  and  had  stayed  on  only  because 
Old  Mill  House  happened  to  fall  vacant  so  opportunely. 
No  other  house  was  available  in  the  village.  So  the 
chances  went  on,  till  chance  culminated  in  that  meeting  of 
his  with  Sibylla :  not  their  first  encounter,  but  the  one  he 
always  called  his  meeting  with  her  in  his  own  thoughts — 
that  wonderful  evening  when  all  the  sky  was  red,  and  the 
earth  too  looked  almost  red,  and  the  air  was  so  still. 
Then  he  had  been  with  her  in  his  garden,  and  she,  forget- 
ful of  him,  had  turned  her  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and  gazed 
and  gazed.  Presently,  and  still,  as  it  seemed,  uncon- 
sciously, she  had  stretched  out  her  hand  and  caught  his 
in  a  tight  grip,  silently  but  urgently  demanding  his  sym- 
pathy for  thoughts  and  feelings  she  could  not  express. 
At  that  moment  her  beauty  seemed  to  be  born  for  him, 
and  he  had  determined  to  make  it  his.  He  smiled  now, 
saying  that  he  had  been  as  impulsive  as  the  merest  boy, 
thanking  fortune  that  he  could  rejoice  in  the  impulse 
instead  of  condemning  it — an  end  which  a  priori  would 


16  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

have  seemed  much  the  more  probable.  In  nine  cases  out 
of  ten  it  would  have  been  foolish  and  disastrous  to  be  car- 
ried away  in  an  instant  like  that.  In  his  case  it  had,  at  any 
rate,  not  proved  disastrous.  From  that  moment  he  had 
never  turned  back  from  his  purpose,  and  he  had  nothing 
but  satisfaction  in  its  now  imminent  accomplishment. 

"Absolutely  the  right  thing!  I  couldn't  have  done  bet- 
ter for  myself." 

He  stood  still  once  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  said 
these  words  aloud.  They  exhausted  the  subject,  and 
Grantley  sat  down  at  his  writing-table  to  answer  Mrs. 
Raymore's  letter  of  congratulation.  He  had  never  been 
in  love  with  Mrs.  Raymore,  who  was  his  senior  by  ten 
years;  but  she  was  an  old  and  intimate  friend — perhaps  his 
most  intimate  friend.  She  had  been  more  or  less  in  his 
confidence  while  he  was  wooing  Sibylla,  and  a  telegram 
apprising  her  of  his  success  had  called  forth  the  letter  to 
which  he  now  owed  a  response. 

"If  I  had  been  a  poor  man,"  he  wrote  in  the  course  of 
his  reply,  "I  wouldn't  have  married — least  of  all  a  rich 
wife.  Even  as  a  well-to-do  man,  I  wouldn't  have  married 
a  rich  wife.  You  have  to  marry  too  much  besides 
the  woman  !  And  I  didn't  want  a  society  woman,  nor  any- 
body from  any  of  the  sets  I've  knocked  about  with.  But 
I  did  want  to  marry.  I  want  a  wife,  and  I  want  the  dynasty 
continued.  It's  come  direct  from  father  to  son  for  five  or 
six  generations,  and  I  didn't  want  to  stand  on  record  as  the 
man  who  stopped  it.  I'm  entirely  contented,  no  less  with 
the  project  than  with  the  lady.  It  will  complete  my  life. 
That's  what  I  want — a  completion,  not  a  transformation. 
She'll  do  just  this  for  me.  If  I  had  taken  a  child  and 
trained  her,  I  couldn't  have  got  more  exactly  what  I  want; 
and  I'm  sure  you'll  think  so  when  you  come  to  know  her. 
Incidentally,  I  am  to  acquire  a  delightful  brother-in-law. 


THE  FAIRY  RIDE  17 

He'll  always  be  a  capital  fellow;  but,  alas,  he  won't  long 
be  the  jewel  he  is  now:  just  at  that  stage  between  boy  and 
man — hobbledehoy,  as  you  women  used  to  make  me  so 
furious  by  calling  me — breathing  fury  against  all  institu- 
tions, especially  those  commonly  supposed  to  be  of  divine 
origin;  learned  in  ten  thousand  books;  knowing  naught 
of  all  that  falls  under  the  categories  of  men,  women,  and 
things;  best  of  all,  blindly  wrath  at  himself  because  he  has 
become,  or  is  becoming,  a  man,  and  can't  help  it,  and  can't 
help  feeling  it !  How  he  hates  women  and  despises  them ! 
You  see,  he  has  begun  to  be  afraid !  I  haven't  told  him 
that  he's  begun  to  be  afraid;  it  will  be  rich  to  watch  him 
as  he  achieves  the  discovery  on  his  own  account.  You'll 
enjoy  him  very  much." 

Grantley  ended  his  letter  with  a  warm  tribute  to  Mrs. 
Raymore's  friendship,  assurances  of  all  it  had  been  to  him, 
and  a  promise  that  marriage  should,  so  far  as  his  feelings 
went,  in  no  way  lessen,  impair,  or  alter  the  affection  be- 
tween them. 

"He's  very  nice  about  me,"  said  Mrs.  Raymore  when 
she  had  finished  reading;  "and  he  says  a  good  deal  about 
the  brother-in-law,  and  quite  a  lot  about  himself.  But 
really,  he  says  hardly  one  word  about  Sibylla!"  Now  it 
was,  of  course,  about  Sibylla  that  Mrs.  Raymore  had 
wanted  to  hear. 

Late  afternoon  found  Grantley  cantering  over  the 
downs  towards  Fairhaven.  Sibylla  had  been  staying  the 
night  there  with  a  Mrs.  Valentine,  a  friend  of  hers,  and 
was  to  return  by  the  omnibus  which  plied  to  and  from 
Milldean.  Their  plan  was  that  he  should  meet  her  and 
she  should  dismount,  leaving  her  luggage  to  be  delivered. 
He  loved  his  horse,  and  had  seized  the  opportunity  of  slip- 
ping in  a  ride.  When  she  joined  him,  he  would  get  off 
and  walk  with  her.     As  he  rode  now  he  was  not  in  the 


18  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

calm  mood  which  had  dictated  his  letter.  He  was  excited 
and  eager  at  the  prospect  of  meeting  Sibylla  again;  he  was 
exulting  in  the  success  of  his  love,  instead  of  contemplating 
with  satisfaction  the  orderly  progression  of  his  life.  But 
still  he  had  not,  and  knew  he  had  not,  quite  the  freedom 
from  self-consciousness  which  marks  a  youthful  passion. 
The  eagerness  was  there,  but  he  was  not  surprised,  al- 
though he  was  gratified,  to  find  it  there.  His  ardour  was 
natural  enough  to  need  no  nursing;  yet  Grantley  was  in- 
clined to  caress  it.  He  laughed  as  he  let  his  horse  stretch 
himself  in  a  gallop ;  he  was  delighted,  and  a  trifle  amused, 
to  find  his  emotions  so  fresh :  none  of  the  luxury,  none  of 
the  pleasure-giving  power,  had  gone  out  of  them.  He  was 
still  as  good  a  lover  as  any  man. 

He  was  cantering  over  the  turf  thirty  or  forty  yards 
from  the  road  when  the  omnibus  passed  him.  The  driver 
cried  his  name,  and  pointed  back  with  his  whip.  Grantley 
saw  Sibylla  a  long  way  behind.  He  touched  his  horse 
with  the  spur,  and  galloped  towards  her.  Now  she  stood 
still,  waiting  for  him.  He  came  up  to  her  at  full  speed, 
reined  in,  and  leapt  off.  Holding  his  bridle  and  his  hat  in 
one  hand,  with  the  other  he  took  hers,  and,  bowing  over 
it,  kissed  it.  His  whole  approach  was  gallantly  conceived 
and  carried  out. 

"Ah,  you — you  come  to  me  like  Sir  Galahad!"  mur- 
mured Sibylla. 

"My  dear,  Sir  Galahad!     A  banker,  Sir  Galahad!" 
"Well,  do  bankers  kiss  the  hands  of  paupers?" 
"Bankers  of  love  would  kiss  the  hands  of  its  million- 


aires." 


"And  am  I  a  millionaire  of  love?" 

Grantley  let  go  her  hand  and  joined  in  her  laugh  at 
their  little  bout  of  conceits.  She  carried  it  on,  but  merrily 
now,  not  in  the  almost  painful  strain  of  delight  which 
had  made  her  first  greeting  sound  half-choked. 


THE  FAIRY  RIDE  19 

"Haven't  I  given  it  all  to  you — to  a  dishonest  banker, 
who'll  never  let  me  have  it  back?" 

"We  pay  interest  on  large  accounts,"  Grantley  remind- 
ed her. 

"You'll  pay  large,  large  interest  to  me?" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  it  rested  there  as 
they  began  to  walk,  the  good  horse  Rollo  pacing  soberly 
beside  them. 

"All  the  larger  if  I've  embezzled  the  principal !  That's 
always  the  way,  you  know."  He  stopped  suddenly,  laugh- 
ing, "It's  quite  safe !"  and  kissed  her. 

He  held  her  face  a  moment,  looking  into  the  depths  of 
her  dark  eyes.  Now  he  forgot  to  be  amused  at  himself 
or  even  gratified.  If  he  was  not  as  a  boy-lover,  it  was  not 
because  he  advanced  with  less  ardour,  but  that  he  advanced 
with  more  knowledge;  not  because  he  abandoned  himself 
less,  but  that  he  knew  to  what  the  self-abandonment  was. 

She  walked  along  with  a  free  swing  under  her  short  cloth 
skirt;  evidently  she  could  walk  thus  for  many  a  mile  with 
no  slackening  and  no  fatigue.  The  wind  had  caught  her 
hair,  and  blew  it  from  under,  and  round  about,  and  even 
over  the  flat  cap  of  red  that  she  wore ;  her  eyes  gazed  and 
glowed  and  cried  joy  to  him.  There  under  the  majestic 
spread  of  sky,  amid  the  exhilaration  of  the  salt-tasting  air, 
on  the  green  swell  of  the  land,  by  the  green  and  blue  and 
white  of  the  sea,  she  was  an  intoxication.  Grantley  breathed 
quickly  as  he  walked  with  her  hand  on  his  wrist. 

"It's  so  new,"  she  whispered  in  a  joyful  apology.  "I've 
never  been  in  love  before.  You  have !  Oh,  of  course  you 
have!  I  don't  mind  that — not  now.  I  used  to  before — 
before  you  told  me.  I  used  to  be  very  jealous.  I  couldn't 
be  jealous  now — except  of  not  being  allowed  to  love  you 
enough." 

"When  I'm  with  you  I've  never  been  in  love  before." 


20  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"I  don't  believe  you  ever  have — not  really.  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  could — -without  me  to  help  you!"  She  laughed 
at  her  boast  as  she  made  it,  drumming  her  fingers  lightly 
on  his  arm;  his  blood  seemed  to  register  each  separate 
touch  with  a  beat  for  each.  "When  we're  married, 
Grantley,  you  shall  give  me  a  horse,  such  a  good  horse, 
such  a  fast  horse — as  good  and  as  fast  as  dear  old  Rollo. 
And  we'll  ride — we'll  ride  together — oh,  so  far  and  so 
fast,  against  the  wind,  right  against  it  breathlessly !  We'll 
mark  the  setting  sun,  and  we'll  ride  straight  for  it,  never 
stopping,  never  turning.  We'll  ride  straight  into  the  gold, 
both  of  us  together,  and  let  the  gold  swallow  us  up !" 

"A  bizarre  ending  for  a  respectable  West-End  couple!" 

"No  ending!  We'll  do  it  every  day!"  She  turned  to 
him  suddenly,  saying:  "Ride  now.  You  mount — I'll  get 
up  behind  you." 

"What?    You'll  be  horribly  uncomfortable!" 

"Who's  thinking  of  comfort?  Rollo  can  carry  us  easily. 
Mount,  Grantley,  mount !  Don't  go  straight  home.  Ride 
along  the  cliff.     Come,  mount,  mount!" 

She  was  not  to  be  denied.  When  he  was  mounted,  she 
set  her  foot  lightly  on  his,  and  he  helped  her  up. 

"My  arm  round  your  waist!"  she  cried.  "Why,  I'm 
splendid  here !  Gallop,  Grantley,  gallop  !  Think  some- 
body's pursuing  us  and  trying- to  take  me  away." 

"Must  poor  Rollo  drop  down  dead?" 

"No,  but  we'll  pretend  he  will!" 

Now  and  then  he  cried  something  back  to  her  as  they 
rode;  but  for  the  most  part  he  knew  only  her  arm  about 
him,  the  strands  of  her  hair  brushing  against  his  cheek  as 
the  wind  played  with  them,  her  short  quick  breathing  be- 
hind him.  The  powerful  horse  seemed  to  join  in  the  revel, 
so  strong  and  easy  was  his  gait  as  he  pulled  playfully  and 
tossed  his  head.    They  were  alone  in  the  world,  and  the 


THE  FAIRY  RIDE  21 

world  was  very  simple — the  perfect  delight  of  the  living 
body,  the  unhindered  union  of  soul  with  soul — all  nature 
fostering,  inciting,  applauding.  It  was  a  great  return  to 
the  earliest  things,  and  nothing  lived  save  those.  They  rode 
more  than  king  and  queen;  they  rode  god  and  goddess  in 
the  youth  of  the  world,  descended  from  High  Olympus  to 
take  their  pleasure  on  the  earth.  They  rode  far  and  fast 
against  the  wind,  against  it  breathlessly.  They  rode  into 
the  gold,  and  the  gold  swallowed  them  up. 

The  blood  was  hot  in  him,  and  when  first  he  heard  her 
gasp  "Stop !"  he  would  pay  no  heed.  He  turned  the 
horse's  head  towards  home,  but  they  went  at  a  gallop  still. 
He  felt  her  head  fall  against  his  shoulder.  It  rested  there. 
Her  breath  came  quicker,  faster;  he  seemed  to  see  her 
bosom  rising  and  falling  in  the  stress.  But  he  did  not 
stop.    Again  her  voice  came,  strangled  and  faint: 

"I  can't  bear  any  more.    Stop  !    Stop  I" 

One  more  wild  rush,  and  he  obeyed.  He  was  quivering 
all  over  when  they  came  to  a  stand.  Her  hold  round  him 
grew  loose ;  she  was  about  to  slip  down.  He  turned  round 
in  his  saddle  and  caught  her  about  the  waist  with  his  arm. 
He  drew  her  off  the  horse  and  forward  to  his  side.  He 
held  her  thus  with  his  arm,  exulting  in  the  struggle  of  his 
muscles.  He  held  her  close  against  him  and  kissed  her  face. 
When  he  let  her  go  and  she  reached  earth,  she  sank  on 
the  ground  and  covered  her  face  with  both  hands,  all  her 
body  shaken  with  her  gasps.  He  sat  on  his  horse  for  a 
moment,  looking  at  her.  He  drew  a  deep  inspiration,  and 
brushed  drops  of  sweat  from  his  brow.  He  was  surprised 
to  find  that  there  seemed  now  little  wind,  that  the  sun  was 
veiled  in  clouds,  that  a  waggon  passed  along  the  road, 
that  a  dog  barked  from  a  farmhouse,  that  the  old  ordinary 
humdrum  world  was  there. 

He  heard  a  short  stifled  sob. 


22  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"You're  not  angry  with  me?"  he  said.  "I  wasn't  rough 
to  you?    I  couldn't  bear  to  stop  at  first." 

She  showed  him  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears; 
there  was  a  deep  glow  on  her  cheeks,  generally  so  pale. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  stood  by  his  horse,  looking  up 
at  him. 

"I  angry?  You  rough?  It  has  been  more  than  I  knew 
happiness  could  be.  I  had  no  idea  joy  could  be  like  that, 
no  idea  life  had  anything  like  that.  And  you  ask 
me  if  I'm  angry  and  if  you  were  rough !  You're 
opening  life  to  me,  showing  me  why  it  is  good,  why 
I  have  it,  why  I  want  it,  what  I'm  to  do  with  it.  You're 
opening  it  all  to  me.  And  all  the  beauties  come  out  of  your 
dear  hand,  Grantley.  Angry!  I  know  only  that  you're 
doing  this  for  me,  only  that  I  must  give  you  in  return,  in 
a  poor  return,  all  I  have  and  am  and  can  be — must  give 
you  my  very,  very  self." 

He  was  in  a  momentary  reaction  of  feeling;  his  earnest- 
ness was  almost  sombre  as  he  answered : 

"God  grant  you're  doing  right!" 

"I'm  doing  what  I  must  do,  Grantley." 

He  swung  himself  off  his  horse,  and  the  ready  smile 
came  to  his  face. 

"I  hope  you'll  find  the  necessity  a  permanent  one,"  he 
said. 

She  too  laughed  joyfully  as  she  submitted  to  his  kiss. 

It  was  her  whim,  urged  with  the  mock  imperiousness  of 
a  petted  slave,  that  he  should  mount  again,  and  she  walk 
by  his  horse.  Thus  they  wended  their  way  home  through 
the  peace  of  the  evening.  She  talked  now  of  how  he  had 
first  come  into  her  life,  of  how  she  had  begun  to —  She 
hesitated,  ending,  "How  I  began  first  to  feel  you — "  and 
of  how,  little  by  little,  the  knowledge  of  the  feeling  had 
disclosed  itself.     She  was  wonderfully  open  and  simple, 


THE    FAIRY    RIDE  23 

very  direct  and  unabashed ;  yet  there  was  nothing  that  even 
his  fastidious  and  much-tested  taste  found  indelicate  or  even 
forward.  In  glad  confidence  she  told  all,  careless  of  keep- 
ing any  secrets  or  any  defences  against  him.  The  seed  had 
quickened  in  virgin  soil,  and  the  flower  had  sprung  up  in  a 
night — almost  by  magic,  she  seemed  to  fancy.  He  listened 
tenderly  and  indulgently.  The  flame  of  his  emotion  had 
burnt  down,  but  there  was  an  after-glow  which  made  him 
delightfully  content  with  her,  interested  and  delighted  in 
her,  still  more  thoroughly  satisfied  with  what  he  had  done, 
even  more  glad  that  she  was  different  from  all  the  others 
with  whom  he  had  been  thrown.  While  she  displayed 
to  him  at  once  the  joy  and  the  spontaneity  of  her  abandon- 
ment of  her  whole  existence  and  self  to  him,  she  made  him 
surer  of  his  wisdom  in  taking  her  and  all  she  offered,  more 
convinced  of  the  excellence  of  this  disposition  of  his  life. 
She  could  give  him  all  he  pictured  as  desirable — the 
stretches  of  tranquillity,  the  moments  of  strong  feeling. 
She  had  it  in  her  to  give  both,  and  she  would  give  all  she 
had  to  give.  In  return  he  gave  her  his  love.  No  analysis 
seemed  needful  there.  He  gave  her  the  love  of  his  heart 
and  the  shelter  of  his  arm;  what  more  he  could  give  her 
the  afternoon  had  shown.  But  in  the  end  it  was  all  con* 
tained  and  summed  up  in  a  word — he  gave  his  love. 

They  came  to  the  crest  of  the  hill  where  the  road  dipped 
down  to  Milldean,  and  paused  there. 

"What  a  wonderful  afternoon  it's  been!"  she  sighed. 

The  enchantment  of  it  hung  about  her  still,  expressing 
itself  in  the  gleam  of  her  eyes  and  in  her  restlessness. 

"It's  been  a  very  delightful  one,"  he  leaned  down  and 
whispered  to  her.  "It's  given  us  something  to  look  back 
on  always." 

"Yes,  a  great  thing  to  look  back  on.  But  even  more 
to  look  forward  to.  It's  told  us  what  life  is  going  to  be, 
Grantley.    And  to  think  that  life  used  to  mean  only  that !" 


24  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

She  waved  her  hand  towards  Milldean. 

Grantley  laughed  in  sheer  enjoyment  of  her.  Amuse- 
ment mingled  with  his  admiration.  His  balance  had  quite 
come  back  to  him.  A  review  of  the  afternoon,  of  their 
wild  ride,  made  him  give  part  of  his  amusement  to  his  own 
share  in  the  proceedings.  But  who  expects  a  man,  or  need 
expect  himself,  to  be  wise  when  he  is  in  love?  If  there 
be  a  chartered  season  for  sweet  folly,  it  is  there. 

"Can  we  always  be  careering  over  the  downs  in  the  teeth 
of  the  wind,  riding  into  the  gold,  Sibylla?"  he  asked  her 
in  affectionate  mockery. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  answering  simply: 

"Why  not?" 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  whimsical  smile. 

"Whatever  else  there  is,  our  hearts  can  be  riding  to- 
gether still." 

"And  when  we're  old  folks?  Isn't  it  only  the  young 
who  can  ride  like  that?" 

She  stood  silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  she  turned 
her  eyes  up  to  his  in  silence  still,  with  the  colour  shining 
bright  on  her  cheeks.  She  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 
He  knew  the  thought  that  his  words  had  called  into  her 
mind.  He  had  made  the  girl  think  that,  when  they  were 
old,  the  world  would  not  be ;  there  would  be  young  hearts 
still  to  ride,  young  hearts  in  whom  their  hearts  should  be 
carried  still  in  the  glorious  gallop,  young  hearts  which 
had  drawn  life  from  them. 

They  parted  at  the  gate  of  Old  Mill  House.  Grantley 
urged  her  to  come  up  to  his  house  in  the  evening  and  bring 
Jeremy  with  her,  and  laughed  again  when  she  said:  "Bring 
Jeremy?"  She  was  confused  at  the  hint  in  his  laughter, 
but  she  laughed  too.     Then  growing  grave,  she  went  on: 

"No,  I  won't  come  to-night.  I  won't  see  you  again  to- 
night.    I  want  to  realise  it,  to  think  it  all  over." 


THE  FAIRY  RIDE  25 

"Is  it  so  complicated  as  that?     You're  looking  very 


serious!" 


She  broke  into  a  fresh  laugh,  a  laugh  of  joyful  con- 
fession. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  think  it  over.  I  really  want  to  live 
it  over,  to  live  it  over  alone,  many,  many  times.  To  be 
alone  with  you  again  up  on  the  downs  there." 

"Very  well.  Send  Jeremy  up.  By  now  he  must  be 
dying  for  an  argument;  and  he's  probably  not  on  speaking 
terms  with  Mrs.  Mumple." 

He  gave  her  his  hand;  any  warmer  farewell  there  in  the 
village  street  was  quite  against  his  ways  and  notions.  He 
observed  a  questioning  look  in  her  eyes,  but  it  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  she  was  rather  surprised  at  his  wanting  Jeremy 
to  come  up  after  dinner.  She  did  not  propose  to  spend 
any  time  with  Jeremy. 

"I'll  tell  him  you  want  him,"  she  said;  and  added  in  a 
whisper:  "Good-bye,  good-bye,  good-bye!" 

He  walked  his  horse  up  the  hill,  looking  back  once  or 
twice  to  the  gate  where  she  stood  watching  him  till  a  turn 
of  the  lane  hid  him  from  her  sight.  When  that  happened, 
he  sighed  in  luxurious  contentment,  and  took  a  cigarette 
from  his  case. 

To  her  the  afternoon  had  been  a  wonder-working  reve- 
lation; to  him  it  seemed  an  extremely  delightful  episode. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THE   WORLDLY   MIND 

FOR  a  girl  of  ardent  temper  and  vivid  imagination, 
strung  to  her  highest  pitch  by  a  wonderful  fairy 
ride  and  the  still  strange  embrace  of  her  lover, 
it  may  fairly  be  reckoned  a  trial  to  listen  to  a  detailed  com- 
parison of  the  hero  of  her  fancy  with  another  individual — 
who  has  been  sentenced  to  twenty  years'  penal  servitude 
for  attempted  murder!  Concede  circumstances  extenua- 
ting the  crime  as  amply  as  you  please  (and  My  Lord  in 
scarlet  on  the  Bench  had  not  encouraged  the  jury  to  con- 
cede any) ,  the  comparison  is  one  that  gives  small  pleasure, 
unless  such  as  lies  in  an  opportunity  for  the  exercise  of 
Christian  patience.  This  particular  virtue  Jeremy  Chid- 
dingfold  suspected  of  priestly  origin;  neither  was  it  the 
strongest  point  in  his  sister's  spiritual  panoply.  He 
regarded  Sibylla's  ill-repressed  irritation  and  irrepressible 
fidgeting  with  a  smile  of  malicious  humour. 

"You  might  almost  as  well  come  up  to  Imason's,"  he 
whispered. 

"She  can't  go  on  much  longer!"  moaned  Sibylla. 

But  she  could.  For  long  years  starved  of  fruition,  her 
love  revelled  luxuriantly  in  retrospect  and  tenderly  in  pros- 
pect; and  she  was  always  good  at  going  on,  and  at  going  on 
along  the  same  lines.  Mrs.  Mumple's  loving  auditors  had 
heard  the  tale  of  Luke's  virtues  many  a  time  during  the 
period  of  his  absence  (that  was  the  term  euphemistically 
employed) .  The  ashes  of  their  interest  suddenly  flickered 
up  at  the  hint  of  a  qualification  which  Mrs.  Mumple  un- 
expectedly introduced. 

26 


THE  WORLDLY  MIND  27 

"He  wasn't  the  husband  for  every  woman,"  she  said 
thoughtfully. 

"Thank  heaven!"  muttered  Jeremy,  glad  to  escape  the 
superhuman. 

"Eh,  Jeremy?" 

She  revolved  slowly  and  ponderously  towards  him. 

"Thank  heaven  he  got  the  right  sort,  Mumples." 

"He  did,"  said  Mrs.  Mumple  emphatically;  "and  he 
knew  it — and  he'll  know  it  again  when  he  comes  back,  and 
that's  only  three  years  now." 

A  reference  to  this  date  was  always  the  signal  for  a 
kiss  from  Sibylla.  She  rendered  the  tribute  and  returned 
to  her  chair,  sighing  desperately.  But  it  was  some  relief 
that  Mrs.  Mumple  had  finished  her  parallel,  with  its  list 
of  ideal  virtues,  and  now  left  Grantley  out  of  the  question. 

"Why  wasn't  he  the  husband  for  every  woman,  Mum- 
ples?" inquired  Jeremy  as  he  lit  his  pipe.  "They're  all 
just  alike,  you  know." 

"You  wait,  Jeremy!" 

"Bosh!"  ejaculated  Jeremy  curtly. 

"He  liked  them  good-looking,  to  start  with,"  she  went 
on;  "and  I  was  good-looking."  Jeremy  had  heard  this  so 
often  that  he  no  longer  felt  tempted  to  smile.  "But  there 
was  more  than  that.    I  had  tact." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Mumples!  You  had  tact?  You? 
I'm— well,  I'm " 

"I  had  tact,  Jeremy."  She  spoke  with  overpowering 
solidity.  "I  was  there  when  he  wanted  me,  and  when  he 
didn't  want  me  I  wasn't  there,  Sibylla." 

"Didn't  he  always  want  you?"  Brother  and  sister 
put  the  question  simultaneously,  but  with  a  quite  different 
intention. 

"No,  not  always,  dears. — Is  that  your  foot  on  my  table? 
Take  it  off  this  instant,  Jeremy  I" 


28  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Quite  a  few  thousand  years  ago  there  was  no  difference 
between  a  foot  and  a  hand,  Mumples.  You  needn't  be  so 
fussy  about  it." 

Sibylla  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window.  From  it  the 
lights  in  Grantley's  dining-room  were  visible. 

"I  haven't  seen  him  for  ten  years,"  Mrs.  Mumple  went 
on;  "and  you've  known  that,  my  dears,  though  you've  said 
nothing — no,  not  when  you'd  have  liked  to  have  some- 
thing to  throw  at  me.    But  I  never  told  you  why." 

Sibylla  left  the  window  and  came  behind  Mrs.  Mumple, 
letting  her  hand  rest  on  the  fat  shoulder. 

"He  broke  out  at  me  once,  and  said  he  couldn't  bear 
it  if  I  came  to  see  him.  It  upset  him  so,  and  the  time 
wouldn't  pass  by,  and  he  got  thinking  how  long  the  time 
was,  and  what  it  all  meant.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  all  he 
said  before  he  was  stopped  by  the — the  man  who 
was  there.  So  I  promised  him  I  wouldn't  go  any  more, 
unless  he  fell  ill  or  wanted  me.  They  said  they'd  let  me 
know  if  he  asked  for  me  and  was  entitled  to  a  visit.  But 
word  has  never  come  to  me,  and  I've  never  seen  him." 

She  paused  and  stitched  at  her  work  for  a  minute  or 
two. 

"You  must  leave  men  alone  sometimes,"  she  said. 

"But,  Mumples,  you?"  whispered  Sibylla. 

Mrs.  Mumple  looked  up  at  her,  but  made  no  answer. 
Jeremy  flung  down  his  book  with  an  impatient  air;  he  re- 
sented the  approaches  of  emotion — especially  in  himself. 

"He'll  be  old  when  he  comes  out — comes  back — old 
and  broken;  they  break  quickly  there.  He  won't  so  much 
mind  my  being  old  and  stout,  and  he  won't  think  so  much 
of  the  time  when  I  was  young  and  he  couldn't  be  with  me; 
and  he'll  find  me  easier  to  live  with:  my  temper's  im- 
proved a  lot  these  last  years,  Sibylla." 

"You  silly  old  thing!"  said  Sibylla. 


THE  WORLDLY  MIND  29 

But  Jeremy  welcomed  a  diversion. 

"Rot!"  he  said.  "It's  only  because  you  can't  sit  on  us 
quite  so  much  now.  It's  not  moral  improvement;  it's  sim- 
ply impotence,  Mumples." 

Mrs.  Mumple  had  risen  in  the  midst  of  eulogising  the 
improvement  of  her  temper,  and  now  passed  by  Jeremy, 
patting  his  unwilling  cheek.  She  went  out,  and  the  next 
moment  was  heard  in  vigorous  altercation  with  their  ser- 
vant as  to  the  defects  of  certain  eggs. 

"I  couldn't  have  done  that,"  said  Sibylla. 

"Improved  your  temper?" 

"No,  stayed  away." 

"No,  you  couldn't.  You  never  let  a  fellow  alone,  even 
when  he's  got  toothache." 

"Have  you  got  it  now?"  cried  Sibylla,  darting  toward 
him. 

"Keep  off !  Keep  off !  I  haven't  got  it,  and  if  I  had  I 
shouldn't  want  to  be  kissed." 

Sibylla  broke  into  a  laugh.  Jeremy  relit  his  pipe  with 
a  secret  smile. 

"But  I  do  call  it  fine  of  Mumples." 

"Go  and  tell  her  you've  never  done  her  justice,  and  cry," 
he  suggested.  "I'm  going  up  to  Imason's  now,  so  you  can 
have  it  all  to  yourselves." 

"I  don't  want  to  cry  to-night,"  Sibylla  objected,  with 
a  plain  hint  of  mysterious  causes  for  triumph. 

Jeremy  picked  up  his  cap,  showing  a  studious  disre- 
gard of  any  such  indications. 

"You're  going  up  the  hill  now?    I  shall  sit  up  for  you." 

"You'll  sit  up  forme?" 

"Yes.     Besides,  I  don't  feel  at  all  sleepy  to-night." 

"I  shall  when  I  come  back." 

"I  shan't  want  to  talk." 

"Then  what  will  you  want?  Why  are  you  going  to 
sit  up?" 


3o  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"I've  ever  so  many  things  to  do." 

Jeremy's  air  was  weary  as  he  turned  away  from  the  in- 
scrutable feminine.  While  mounting  the  hill  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  go  to  London  as  soon  as  he  could.  A  man  met 
men  there. 

No  air  of  emotion,  no  atmosphere  of  overstrained  senti- 
ment, hung,  even  for  Jeremy's  critical  eye,  round  Grantley 
Imason's  luxurious  table  and  establishment.  They  sug- 
gested rather  the  ideal  of  comfort  lovingly  pursued,  a  com- 
fort which  lay  not  in  gorgeousness  or  in  mere  expenditure, 
but  in  the  delicate  adjustment  of  means  to  ends  and  a  care- 
ful exclusion  of  anything  likely  to  disturb  a  dexterously 
achieved  equipoise.  Though  Jeremy  admired  the  absence 
of  emotion,  his  rough  vigorous  nature  was  challenged  at 
another  point.  He  felt  a  touch  of  scorn  that  a  man  should 
take  so  much  trouble  to  be  comfortable,  and  should  re- 
gard the  achievement  of  his  object  as  so  meritorious  a  feat. 
In  various  ways  everything,  from  the  gymnastic  apparatus 
in  the  hall  to  the  leg-rest  in  front  of  the  study  fire,  sought 
and  subserved  the  ease  and  pleasure  of  the  owner.  That, 
no  doubt,  is  what  a  house  should  be — just  as  a  man  should 
be  well  dressed.  It  is  possible,  however,  to  be  too  much  of 
a  dandy.  Jeremy  found  an  accusation  of  unmanliness 
making  its  way  into  his  mind;  he  had  to  banish  it  by  recall- 
ing that,  though  his  host  might  be  fond  of  elegant  loung- 
ing, he  was  a  keen  sportsman  too,  and  handled  his  gun  and 
sat  his  horse  with  equal  mastery.  These  virtues  appealed 
to  the  English  public  schoolboy  and  to  the  amateur  of 
Primitive  Man  alike,  and  saved  Grantley  from  condemna- 
tion.    But  Jeremy's  feelings  escaped  in  an  exclamation: 

"By  Jove,  you  are  snug  here !" 

"I  don't  pretend  to  be  an  ascetic,"  laughed  Grantley, 
as  he  stretched  his  legs  out  on  the  leg-rest. 

"Evidently." 


THE  WORLDLY  MIND  31 

Grantley  looked  at  him,  smiling. 

"I  don't  rough  it  unless  I'm  obliged.  But  I  can  rough 
it.  I  once  lived  for  a  week  on  sixpence  a  day.  I  had  a  row 
with  my  governor.  He  wanted  me  to  give  up —  Well, 
never  mind  details.  It's  enough  to  observe,  Jeremy,  that 
he  was  quite  right  and  I  was  quite  wrong.  I  know  that 
now,  and  I  rather  fancy  I  knew  it  then.  However,  his 
way  of  putting  it  offended  me,  and  I  flung  myself  out  of 
the  house  with  three-and-six  in  my  pocket.  Like  the  man 
in  Scripture,  I  couldn't  work  and  I  wouldn't  beg,  and  I 
wouldn't  go  back  to  the  governor.  So  it  was  sixpence  a 
day  for  a  week  and  very  airy  lodgings.  Then  it  was  going 
to  be  the  recruiting-sergeant;  but,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
I  met  the  dear  old  man  on  the  way.  I  suppose  I  looked 
a  scarecrow ;  anyhow  he  was  broken  up  about  it,  and  killed 
the  fatted  calf — killed  it  for  an  unrepentant  prodigal.  And 
I  could  do  that  again,  though  I  may  live  in  a  boudoir." 

Jeremy  rubbed  his  hands  slowly  against  one  another — 
a  movement  common  with  him  when  he  was  thinking. 

"I  don't  tell  you  that  to  illustrate  my  high  moral  char- 
acter— as  I  say,  I  was  all  in  the  wrong — but  just  to  show 
you  that,  given  the  motive " 

"What  was  the  motive?" 

"Pride,  obstinacy,  conceit — anything  you  like  of  that 
kind,"  smiled  Grantley.  "I'd  told  the  fellows  about 
my  row,  and  they'd  said  I  should  have  to  knuckle  down. 
So  I  made  up  my  mind  I  wouldn't." 

"Because  of  what  they'd  say?" 

"Don't  be  inquisitorial,  Jeremy.  The  case  is,  I  repeat, 
not  given  as  an  example  of  morality,  but  as  an  example  of 
me — quite  different  things.  However,  I  don't  want  to 
talk  about  myself  to-night;  I  want  to  talk  about  you. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right!"  declared  Jeremy.     "I've  got  my 


32  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

London  B.A.  (it  didn't  run  to  Cambridge,  you  know), 
and  I'm  pegging  away."  A  touch  of  boyish  pompousness 
crept  in.  "I  haven't  settled  precisely  what  line  of  study  I 
shall  devote  myself  to,  but  I  intend  to  take  up  and  pursue 
some  branch  of  original  research." 

Grantley's  mind  had  been  set  on  pleasing  Sibylla  by 
smoothing  her  brother's  path.  His  business  interest  would 
enable  him  to  procure  a  good  opening  for  Jeremy — an 
opening  which  would  lead  to  comfort,  if  not  to  wealth,  in 
a  short  time,  proper  advantage  being  taken  of  it. 

"Original  research  ?"  He  smiled  indulgently.  "There's 
not  much  money  in  that." 

"Oh,  I've  got  enough  to  live  on.  Sibylla's  all  right  now, 
and  I've  got  a  hundred  a  year.  And  I  do  a  popular  scien- 
tific article  now  and  then — I've  had  one  or  two  accepted. 
Beastly  rot  they  have  to  be,  though." 

Grantley  suggested  the  alternative  plan.  Jeremy  would 
have  none  of  it.     He  turned  Grantley's  story  against  him. 

"If  you  could  live  on  sixpence  a  day  out  of  pride,  I 
can  live  on  what  I've  got  for  the  sake  of — of — "  He 
sought  words  for  his  big  vague  ambitions.  "Of  knowl- 
edge— and — and " 

"Fame?"  smiled  Grantley. 

"If  you  like,"  Jeremy  admitted  with  shy  sulkiness. 

"It'll  take  a  long  time.  Oh,  I  know  you're  not  a  mar- 
rying man;  but  still,  a  hundred  a  year " 

"I  can  wait  for  what  I  want." 

"Well,  if  you  change  your  mind,  let  me  know." 

"You  didn't  let  your  father  know." 

Grantley  laughed. 

"Oh,  well,  a  week  isn't  ten  years,  nor  even  five,"  he  re- 
minded Jeremy. 

"A  man  can  wait  for  what  he  wants.  Hang  it,  even  a 
woman  can  do  that!     Look  at  Mumples!" 


THE  WORLDLY  MIND  33 

Grantley  asked  explanations,  and  drew  out  the  story 
which  Mrs.  Mumple  had  told  earlier  in  the  evening. 
Grantley's  fancy  was  caught  by  it,  and  he  pressed  Jeremy 
for  a  full  and  accurate  rendering,  obtaining  a  clear  view 
of  how  Mrs.  Mumple  herself  read  the  case. 

"Quite  a  romantic  picture !  The  lady  and  the  lover, 
with  the  lady  outside  the  castle  and  the  lover  inside — just 
for  a  change." 

Jeremy  had  been  moved  by  the  story,  but  reluctantly 
and  to  his  own  shame.  Now  he  hesitated  whether  to 
laugh  or  not,  nature  urging  one  way,  his  pose  (which  he 
dignified  with  the  title  of  reason)  suggesting  the  other. 

"A  different  view  is  possible  to  the  worldly  mind," 
Grantley  went  on  in  lazy  amusement.  "Perhaps  the  vis- 
its bored  him.  Mumples — if  I  may  presume  to  call  her 
that — probably  cried  over  him  and  'carried  on,'  as  they 
say.  He  felt  a  fool  before  the  warder,  depend  upon  it! 
And  perhaps  she  didn't  look  her  best  in  tears — they  gen- 
erally don't.  Besides  we  see  what  Mumples  looks  like 
now,  and  even  ten  years  ago — !  Well,  as  each  three 
months,  or  whatever  the  time  may  be,  rolled  round,  less 
of  the  charm  of  youth  would  hang  about  her.  We 
shouldn't  suggest  any  of  this  to  Mumples,  but  as  philoso- 
phers and  men  of  the  world  we're  bound  to  contemplate  it 
ourselves,  Jeremy." 

He  drank  some  brandy  and  soda  and  lit  a  fresh  cigar. 
Jeremy  laughed  applause.  Here,  doubtless,  was  the  man 
of  the  world's  view,  the  rational  and  unsentimental  view 
to  which  he  was  avowed  and  committed.  Deep  in  his  heart 
a  small  voice  whispered  that  it  was  a  shame  to  turn  the 
light  of  this  disillusioned  levity  on  poor  old  Mumples' 
mighty  sorrow  and  trustful  love. 

"And  when  we're  in  love  with  them,  they  can't  do  any- 
thing wrong;  and  when  we've  stopped  being  in  love,  they 


34  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

can't  do  anything  right,"  Grantley  sighed  humorously. 
"Oh,  yes,  there's  another  interpretation  of  Mr.  Mumple's 
remarkable  conduct !  You  see,  we  know  he's  not  by  nature 
a  patient  man,  or  he  wouldn't  have  committed  the  indiscre- 
tion that  brought  him  where  he  is.  Don't  they  have  bars, 
or  a  grating,  or  something  between  them  at  these  painful 
interviews?  Possibly  it  was  just  as  well  for  Mumple's 
sake,  now  and  then !" 

Despite  the  small  voice  Jeremy  laughed  more.  He 
braved  its  accusation  of  treachery  to  Mumples.  He  tried 
to  feel  quite  easy  in  his  mirth,  to  enjoy  the  droll  turning 
upside  down  of  the  pathetic  little  story  as  pleasantly  and 
coolly  as  Grantley  there  on  his  couch,  with  his  cigar  and 
his  brandy  and  soda.  For  Grantley's  reflective  smile  was 
entirely  devoid  of  any  self-questioning  or  of  any  sense  of 
treachery  to  anybody  or  to  anything  with  claims  to  rever- 
ence or  loyalty.  It  was  for  Jeremy,  however,  the  first  time 
he  had  been  asked  to  turn  his  theories  on  to  one  he  loved 
and  to  try  how  his  pose  worked  where  a  matter  came  near 
his  heart.  His  mirth  did  not  achieve  spontaneity.  But  it 
was  Grantley  who  said  at  last,  with  a  yawn : 

"It's  a  shame  to  make  fun  out  of  the  poor  old  soul;  but 
the  idea  was  irresistible,  wasn't  it,  Jeremy?" 

And  Jeremy  laughed  again. 

Jeremy  said  good-night  and  went  down  the  hill,  leaving 
Grantley  to  read  the  letters  which  the  evening  post  had 
brought  him.  There  had  been  one  from  Tom  Courtland. 
Grantley  had  opened  and  glanced  at  that  before  his  guest 
went  away.  There  were  new  troubles,  it  appeared.  Lady 
Harriet  had  not  given  her  husband  a  cordial  or  even  a 
civil  welcome;  and  the  letter  hinted  that  Courtland  had 
stood  as  much  as  he  could  bear,  and  that  something,  even 
though  it  were  something  desperate,  must  be  done.  UA 
man  must  find  some  peace  and  some  pleasure  in  his  life," 


THE  WORLDLY  MIND  35 

was  the  sentence  Grantley  chose  to  read  out  as  a  sample 
of  the  letter;  and  he  had  added:  "Poor  old  Tom!  I'm 
afraid  he's  going  to  make  a  fool  of  himself." 

Jeremy  had  asked  no  questions  as  to  the  probable  nature 
of  Courtland's  folly  (which  was  not  perhaps  hard  to 
guess)  ;  but  the  thought  of  him  mingled  with  the  other 
recollections  of  the  evening,  with  Mrs.  Mumple's  story 
and  the  turn  they  had  given  to  it,  with  Grantley's  anec- 
dote about  himself,  and  with  the  idea  of  him  which  Jere- 
my's acute  though  raw  mind  set  itself  to  grope  after  and 
to  realise.  The  young  man  again  felt  that  somehow  his 
theories  had  begun  to  be  no  longer  theories  in  a  vacuum 
of  merely  speculative  thought;  they  had  begun  to  meet 
people  and  to  run  up  against  facts.  The  facts  and  the 
people  no  doubt  fitted  and  justified  the  theories,  but  to  see 
how  that  came  about  needed  some  consideration.  So  far 
he  had  got.  He  had  not  yet  arrived  at  a  modification  of 
the  theories,  or  even  at  an  attitude  of  readiness  to  modify 
them,  although  that  would  have  been  an  unimpeachable 
position  from  a  scientific  standpoint. 

The  sight  of  Sibylla  standing  at  the  gate  of  their  little 
garden  brought  his  thoughts  back  to  her.  He  remembered 
that  she  had  promised  to  sit  up — an  irrational  proceeding, 
as  her  inability  to  give  good  ground  for  it  had  clearly 
proved;  and  it  was  nearly  twelve — a  very  late  hour  for 
Milldean — so  well  had  Grantley's  talk  beguiled  the  time. 
Sibylla  herself  seemed  to  feel  the  need  of  excuse,  for  as 
soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  her  brother  she  cried  out  to 
him: 

"I  simply  couldn't  go  to  bed!  I've  had  such  a  day, 
Jeremy,  and  my  head's  all  full  of  it.  And  on  the  top  of 
it  came  what  poor  Mumples  told  us;  and — and  you  can 
guess  how  that  chimed  in  with  what  I  must  be  thinking." 

He  had  come  up  to  her,  and  she  put  her  hand  in  his. 


36  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Dear  old  Jeremy,  what  friends  we've  been!  We  have 
loved  one  another,  haven't  we?  Don't  stop  loving  me. 
You  don't  say  much,  and  you  pretend  to  be  rather  scorn- 
ful— just  like  a  boy;  and  you  try  to  make  out  that  it's  all 
rather  a  small  and  ordinary  affair " 

"Isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  I  daresay !  But  to  me?  Dear,  you  know  what  it 
is  to  me.  I  don't  want  you  to  say  much;  I  don't  mind  your 
pretending.  But  just  now,  in  the  dark,  when  we're  all 
alone,  when  nobody  can  possibly  hear — and  I  swear  I  won't 
tell  a  single  soul — kiss  me  and  tell  me  your  heart's  with 
me,  because  we've  been  true  friends  and  comrades,  haven't 
we?" 

It  was  dark  and  nobody  was  there.  Jeremy  kissed  her 
and  mumbled  some  awkward  words.    They  were  enough. 

"Now  I'm  quite  happy.  It  was  just  that  I  wanted  to 
hear  it  from  you  too." 

Jeremy  was  glad,  but  he  felt  himself  compromised. 
When  they  went  in,  his  first  concern  was  to  banish  emotion 
and  relieve  the  tension.  Mrs.  Mumple's  workbox  gave  a 
direction  to  his  impulse.  If  a  young  man  be  inclined,  as 
some  are,  to  assume  a  cynical  and  worldly  attitude,  he  will 
do  it  most  before  women,  and,  of  all  women,  most  before 
those  who  know  him  best  and  have  known  him  from  his 
tender  age,  since  to  them  above  all  it  is  most  important  to 
mark  the  change  which  has  occurred.  So  Jeremy  not  only 
allowed  himself  to  forget  that  small  voice,  and,  turning 
back  to  Mrs.  Mumple's  story,  once  more  to  expose  it  to 
an  interpretation  of  the  worldly  and  cynical  order,  but  he 
went  even  further.  The  view  which  Grantley  had  sug- 
gested to  him,  which  had  never  crossed  his  mind  till  it  was 
put  before  him  by  another,  the  disillusioned  view,  he  repre- 
sented now  not  as  Grantley's,  but  as  his  own.  He  threw 
it  out  as  an  idea  which  naturally  presented  itself  to  a  man 


THE    WORLDLY    MIND  37 

of  the  world,  giving  the  impression  that  it  had  been  in  his 
mind  all  along,  even  while  Mrs.  Mumple  was  speaking. 
And  now  he  asked  Sibylla,  not  perhaps  altogether  to  be- 
lieve in  it,  but  to  think  it  possible,  almost  probable,  and 
certainly  very  diverting. 

Sibylla  heard  him  through  in  silence,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
him  in  a  regard  grave  at  first,  becoming,  as  he  went  on, 
almost  frightened. 

"Do  ideas  like  that  come  into  men's  minds?"  she  asked 
at  the  end.  She  did  not  suspect  that  the  idea  had  not  been 
her  brother's  own  in  the  beginning.  "I  think  it's  a  horri- 
ble idea." 

"Oh,  you're  so  high-falutin' !"  he  laughed,  glad,  per- 
haps, to  have  shocked  her  a  little. 

She  came  up  to  him  and  touched  his  arm  imploringly. 

"Forget  it,"  she  urged.  "Never  think  about  it  again. 
Oh,  remember  how  much,  how  terribly  she  loves  him! 
Don't  have  such  ideas."  She  drew  back  a  little.  "I  think 
— I  think  it's  almost — devilish :  I  mean,  to  imagine  that, 
to  suspect  that,  without  any  reason.    Yes — devilish!" 

That  hit  Jeremy;  it  was  more  than  he  wanted. 

"Devilish  ?  You  call  it  devilish  ?  Why,  it  was — "  He 
had  been  about  to  lay  the  idea  to  its  true  father-mind;  but 
he  did  not.  He  looked  at  his  sister  again.  "Well,  I'm 
sorry,"  he  grumbled.     "It  only  struck  me  as  rather  funny." 

Sibylla's  wrath  vanished. 

"It's  just  because  you  know  nothing  about  it  that  you 
could  think  such  a  thing,  poor  boy,"  said  she. 

It  became  clearer  still  that  Grantley  must  not  be  brought 
in,  because  the  only  explanation  which  mitigated  Jeremy's 
offence  could  not  help  Grantley.  Jeremy  was  loyal  here, 
whatever  he  may  have  been  to  Mrs.  Mumple.  He  kept 
Grantley  out  of  it.  But — devilish !  What  vehement  lan- 
guage for  the  girl  to  use. 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

INITIATION 

MRS.  RAYMORE  was  giving  a  little  dinner  at 
her  house  in  Buckingham  Gate  in  honour  of 
Grantley  Imason  and  his  wife.  They  had  made 
their  honeymoon  a  short  one,  and  were  now  in  Sloane  Street 
for  a  month  before  settling  at  Milldean  for  the  autumn. 
The  gathering  was  of  Grantley's  friends,  one  of  the  sets 
with  whom  he  had  spent  much  of  his  time  in  bachelor  days. 
The  men  were  old-time  friends ;  as  they  had  married,  the 
wives  had  become  his  acquaintances  too — in  some  cases  (as 
in  Mrs.  Raymore's)  more  than  mere  acquaintances.  They 
had  all  been  interested  in  him,  and  consequently  were  curi- 
ous about  his  wife — critical,  no  doubt,  but  prepared  to  be 
friendly  and  to  take  her  into  the  set,  if  she  would  come. 
Mrs.  Raymore,  as  she  sat  at  the  head  of  her  table,  with 
Grantley  by  her  and  Sibylla  on  Raymore's  right  hand  at 
the  other  end,  was  thinking  that  they,  in  their  turn,  might 
reasonably  interest  the  young  bride — might  set  her  think- 
ing, and  encourage  or  discourage  her  according  to  the  con- 
clusions she  came  to  about  them.  She  and  Raymore  would 
bear  scrutiny  well,  as  things  went.  There  was  a  very  steady 
and  affectionate  friendship  between  them ;  they  lived  com- 
fortably together,  and  had  brought  up  their  children — a 
boy  and  a  girl — successfully  and  without  friction.  Ray- 
more— a  tall  man  with  a  reddish  face  and  deliberate  of 
speech — was  always  patient  and  reasonable.  He  had  never 
been  very  impassioned;  there  had  not  been  much  to  lose 
of  what  is  most  easily  lost.     He  might  have  had  a  few 

38 


INITIATION  39 

more  intellectual  tastes,  perhaps,  and  a  keener  interest  in 
things  outside  his  business;  but  she  had  her  own  friends, 
and  on  the  whole  there  was  little  to  complain  of. 

Then  came  the  Fanshaws — John  and  Christine.  He 
was  on  the  Stock  Exchange;  she,  a  dainty  pretty  woman, 
given  up  to  society  and  to  being  very  well  dressed,  but 
pleasant,  kind,  and  clever  in  a  light  sort  of  way.  They 
liked  to  entertain  a  good  deal,  and  got  through  a  lot  of 
money.  When  Fanshaw  was  making  plenty,  and  Christine 
had  plenty  to  spend,  things  went  smoothly  enough.  In 
bad  times  there  was  trouble,  each  thinking  that  retrench- 
ment could  best  be  practised  by  the  other  and  in  regard  to 
the  expenses  to  which  the  other  was  addicted :  it  was,  for 
instance,  the  stables  against  the  dressmaker  then.  The  hap- 
piness of  the  household  depended  largely  on  the  state  of 
the  markets — a  thing  which  it  might  interest  Mrs.  Grantley 
Imason  to  hear. 

Next  came  the  Selfords — Richard  and  Janet.  He  was 
a  rather  small  frail  man,  of  private  means,  a  dabbler  in  art. 
She  was  artistic  too,  or  would  have  told  you  so,  and  fond 
of  exotic  dogs,  which  she  imported  from  far-off  places,  and 
which  usually  died  soon.  They  were  a  gushing  pair,  both 
toward  one  another  and  toward  the  outside  world;  al- 
most aggressively  affectionate  in  public.  "Trying  to  hum- 
bug everybody,"  Tom  Courtland  used  to  say;  but  that  was 
too  sweeping  a  view.  Their  excessive  amiability  was  the 
result  of  their  frequent  quarrels — or  rather  tiffs,  since  quar- 
rel is  perhaps  an  over-vigorous  word.  They  were  always 
either  concealing  the  existence  of  a  tiff  or  making  one  up, 
reconciling  themselves  with  a  good  deal  of  display.  Every- 
body knew  this,  thanks  in  part  to  their  sharp-eyed  sharp- 
tongued  daughter  Anna,  a  girl  of  seventeen,  who  knew 
all  about  the  tiffs  and  could  always  be  got  to  talk  about 
them. 


4o  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

The  last  pair  were  the  Courtlands  themselves.  All  the 
set  was  rather  afraid  of  Lady  Harriet.  She  was  a  tall, 
handsome,  fair  woman,  still  young;  she  patronised  them 
rather,  but  was  generally  affable  and  agreeable  when  noth- 
ing occurred  to  upset  her.  Tom  Courtland  grew  more  de- 
pressed, heavy,  and  dreary  every  day.  A  crisis  was  ex- 
pected— but  Lady  Harriet's  small-talk  did  not  suffer.  Mrs. 
Raymore  thought  that  the  less  Grantley's  wife  saw  or  knew 
of  that  household  the  better. 

The  party  was  completed  by  Suzette  Bligh,  a  girl  pretty 
in  a  faded  sort  of  way,  not  quite  so  young  as  she  tried  to 
look,  and,  in  Mrs.  Raymore's  opinion,  quite  likely  not  to 
marry  at  all;  and  finally  by  young  Blake,  Walter  Dudley 
Blake,  a  favourite  of  hers  and  of  many  other  people's, 
known  as  a  climber  of  mountains  and  a  shooter  of  rare 
game  in  his  energetic  days;  suspected  of  enjoying  life  some- 
what to  excess  and  with  riotous  revelry  in  his  seasons  of 
leisure ;  impetuous,  chivalrous,  impulsive,  and  notably  good- 
looking.  Mrs.  Raymore  had  put  him  on  Sibylla's  right 
— in  case  her  husband  should  not  prove  amusing  to  the 
honoured  guest. 

On  the  whole,  she  thought,  they  ought  not  to  frighten 
Sibylla  much.  There  was  one  terrible  example — the  Court- 
lands;  but  when  it  comes  to  throwing  things  about,  the 
case  is  admittedly  abnormal.  For  the  rest  they  seemed, 
to  the  student  of  matrimony,  fair  average  samples  of  a 
bulk  of  fair  average  merit.  Perhaps  there  might  have  been 
an  ideal  union — just  to  counter-balance  the  Courtlands  at 
the  other  extreme.  If  such  were  desirable,  let  it  be  hoped 
that  the  Imasons  themselves  would  supply  it.  In  regard  to 
one  point  she  decided,  the  company  was  really  above  the 
average — and  that  the  most  important  point.  There  had 
been  rumours  once  about  Christine  Fanshaw — indeed  they 
were  still  heard  sometimes ;  but  scandal  had  never  assailed 


INITIATION  41 

any  other  woman  there.  In  these  days  that  was  something, 
thought  Mrs.  Raymore. 

Grantley  turned  from  Christine  Fanshaw  to  his  hostess. 

"You're  very  silent.  What  are  you  thinking  about?" 
he  asked. 

"Sibylla's  really  beautiful,  and  in  a  rather  unusual  way. 
You  might  pass  her  over  once;  but  if  you  did  look  once, 
you'd  be  sure  to  look  always." 

"Another  woman's  looks  have  kept  your  attention  all 
this  time?" 

"Your  wife's,"  she  reminded  him  with  an  affectionately 
friendly  glance.  "And  I  was  wondering  what  she  thought 
of  us  all,  what  we  all  look  like  in  those  pondering  thought- 
ful questioning  eyes  of  hers." 

"Her  eyes  do  ask  questions,  don't  they?"  laughed  Grant- 
ley. 

"Many,  many,  and  must  have  answers,  I  should  think. 
And  don't  they  expect  good  answers?" 

"Oh,  she's  not  really  at  all  alarming." 

"You  can  make  the  eyes  say  something  different,  I  dare- 
say?" 

He  laughed  again  very  contentedly.  Mrs.  Raymore's 
admiration  pleased  him,  since  she  was  not  very  easy  herself 
to  please.  He  was  glad  she  approved  of  Sibylla,  though 
as  a  rule  his  own  opinion  was  enough  for  him. 

"Well,  they  aren't  always  questioning.  That  would 
be  fatiguing  in  a  wife — really  as  bad  as  continually  dis- 
cussing the  Arian  heresy,  as  old  Johnson  says.  But  I  dare- 
say," he  lowered  his  voice,  "Lady  Harriet  would  excite 
a  query  or  two." 

"You've  told  me  nothing  about  Sibylla.  I  shall  have 
to  find  it  all  out  for  myself." 

"That's  the  only  knowledge  worth  having;  and  I'm  only 
learning  myself  still,  you  know." 


42  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Really,  that's  an  unusually  just  frame  of  mind  for  a 
husband !    I've  high  hopes  of  you,  Grantley." 

"Good!    Because  you  know  me  uncommonly  well." 

She  thought  a  moment. 

"No,  not  so  very  well,"  she  said.  "You're  hard  to 
know." 

He  took  that  as  a  compliment;  probably  most  people 
would,  since  it  seems  to  hint  at  something  rare  and  out  of 
the  common;  inaccessibility  has  an  aristocratic  flavour. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  we  all  have  our  fastnesses,"  he  said  with 
a  laugh  which  politely  waived  any  claim  to  superiority 
without  expressly  abandoning  it. 

"Doesn't  one  give  up  the  key  of  the  gates  by  marry- 
ing?" 

"My  dear  Kate,  read  your  Bluebeard  again!" 

Mrs.  Raymore  relapsed  into  the  silence  that  was  almost 
habitual  to  her,  but  it  passed  through  her  mind  that  the 
conversation  had  soon  turned  from  Sibylla  to  Grantley 
himself,  or  at  least  had  dealt  with  Sibylla  purely  in  her 
bearing  on  Grantley;  it  had  not  increased  her  knowledge 
of  Mrs.  Imason  as  an  independent  individual. 

"Well,  with  business  what  it  is,"  said  Fanshaw  in  his 
loud  voice — a  voice  that  had  a  way  of  stopping  other  peo- 
ple's voices — "we  must  cut  it  down  somewhere." 

"Oh,  you're  as  rich  as  Croesus,  Fanshaw!"  objected 
young  Blake. 

"I'm  losing  money  every  day.  Christine  and  I  were 
discussing  it  as  we  drove  here." 

"I  like  your  idea  of  discussion,  John,"  remarked  Chris- 
tine in  her  delicate  tones,  generally  touched  with  sarcasm. 
"I  couldn't  open  my  lips." 

"He  closured  you,  and  then  threw  out  your  Budget?" 
asked  Grantley. 

"He  almost  stripped  my  gown  from  my  back,  and  made 
an  absolute  clutch  at  my  diamonds." 


INITIATION  43 

"I  put  forward  the  reasonable  view,"  Fanshaw  insisted 
rather  heatedly.     "What  I  said  was,  begin  with  superflu- 


"Are  clothes  superfluities?"  interjected  Christine, 
watching  the  gradual  flushing  of  her  husband's  face  with 
mischievous  pleasure. 

"Nothing  is  superfluous  that  is  beautiful,"  said  Selford; 
he  lisped  slightly,  and  spoke  with  an  affected  air.  "We 
should  retrench  in  the  grosser  pleasures — eating  and  drink- 
ing, display,  large  houses " 

"Peculiar  dogs?"  suggested  Blake,  chaffing  Mrs.  Sel- 
ford. 

"Oh,  but  they  are  beautiful!"  she  cried. 

"Horses!"  said  Christine,  with  sharp-pointed  emphasis. 
"You  should  really  be  guided  by  Mr.  Selford,  John." 

"Every  husband  should  be  guided  by  another  husband. 
That's  axiomatic,"  said  Grantley. 

"I'm  quite  content  with  my  own,"  smiled  Mrs.  Selford. 
"Dick  and  I  always  agree." 

"They  must  be  fresh  from  a  row,"  Tom  Courtland 
whispered  surlily  to  Mrs.  Raymore. 

"About  money  matters  the  man's  voice  must  in  the  na- 
ture of  things  be  final,"  Fanshaw  insisted.  "It's  obvious. 
He  knows  about  it;  he  makes  it " 

"Quite  enough  for  him  to  do,"  Christine  interrupted. 
"At  that  point  we  step  in — and  spend  it." 

"Division  of  labour?  Quite  right,  Mrs.  Fanshaw," 
laughed  Blake.  "And  if  any  of  you  can't  manage  your  de- 
partment, I'm  ready  to  help." 

"They  can  manage  that  department  right  enough,"  Fan- 
shaw grumbled.  "If  we  could  manage  them  as  well  as 
they  manage  that — "  He  took  a  great  gulp  of  cham- 
pagne, and  grew  still  redder  when  he  heard  Christine's 
scornful  little  chuckle. 


44  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Raymore  turned  to  Sibylla  with  a  kind  fatherly  smile. 

"I  hope  we're  not  frightening  you,  Mrs.  Imason?  Not 
too  much  of  the  seamy  side?" 

Blake  chimed  in  on  her  other  hand : 

"I'm  here  to  maintain  Mrs.  Imason's  illusions." 

"If  we're  talking  of  departments,  I  think  that's  mine, 
Blake,  thank  you,"  called  Grantley  with  a  laugh. 

"I'm  sure  I've  been  most  considerate."  This  was  Lady 
Harriet's  first  contribution  to  the  talk.  "I  haven't  said  a 
word." 

"And  you  could  a  tale  unfold?"  asked  Blake. 

She  made  no  answer  beyond  shrugging  her  fine  shoul- 
ders and  leaning  back  in  her  chair  as  she  glanced  across  at 
her  husband.  A  moment's  silence  fell  on  the  table.  It 
seemed  that  they  recognised  a  difference  between  troubles 
and  grievances  which  could  be  discussed  with  more  or  less 
good-nature,  or  quarrelled  over  with  more  or  less 
acerbity,  and  those  which  were  in  another  category.  The 
moment  the  Courtlands  were  in  question,  a  constraint 
arose.  Tom  Courtland  himself  broke  the  silence,  but  it 
was  to  talk  about  an  important  cricket-match.  Lady  Har- 
riet smiled  at  him  composedly,  unconscious  of  the  earnest 
study  of  Sibylla's  eyes,  which  were  fixed  on  her  and  were 
asking  (as  Mrs.  Raymore  would  have  said)  many  ques- 
tions. 

When  the  ladies  had  gone,  Fanshaw  button-holed  Ray- 
more and  exhibited  to  him  his  financial  position  and  its  exi- 
gencies with  ruthless  elaboration  and  with  a  persistently 
implied  accusation  of  Christine's  extravagance.  Selford 
victimised  young  Blake  with  the  story  of  a  picture  which 
he  had  just  picked  up;  he  declared  it  was  by  a  famous 
Dutch  master,  and  watched  for  the  effect  on  Blake,  who 
showed  none,  never  having  heard  of  the  Dutch  master. 
Tom  Courtland  edged  up  to  Grantley's  side;  they  had  not 
met  since  Grantley's  wedding. 


INITIATION  45 

''Well,  you  look  very  blooming  and  happy,  and  all 
that,"  he  said. 

"First-rate,  old  boy.     How  are  you?" 

Tom  lowered  his  voice  and  spoke  with  a  cautious  air. 

"I've  done  it,  Grantley — what  I  wrote  to  you.  By  God, 
I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer!  I'd  sooner  take  any  risk. 
Oh,  I  shall  be  very  careful !  I  shan't  give  myself  away. 
But  I  had  to  do  it." 

Grantley  gave  a  shrug. 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "That  sort  of  thing 
may  turn  out  so  awkward." 

"It'd  have  to  be  infernally  awkward  to  be  worse  than 
what  I've  gone  through.  At  any  rate  I  get  away  from  it 
sometimes  now,  and — and  enjoy  myself." 

"Find  getting  away  easy?" 

"No;  but  as  we  must  have  shindies,  we  may  as  well 
have  them  about  that.  I  told  Harriet  she  made  the  house 
intolerable,  so  I  should  spend  my  evenings  at  my  clubs." 

"Oh!    And— and  who  is  she?" 

He  looked  round  warily  before  he  whispered: 

"Flora  Bolton." 

Grantley  raised  his  brows  and  said  one  word : 

"Expensive!" 

Tom  nodded  with  a  mixture  of  ruefulness  and  pride. 

"If  you're  going  to  the  devil,  you  may  as  well  go  quick- 
ly and  pleasantly,"  he  said,  drumming  his  fingers  on  the 
cloth.  "By  heaven,  if  I'd  thought  of  this  when  I  mar- 
ried!    I  meant  to  go  straight — you  know  I  did?" 

Grantley  nodded. 

"I  broke  off  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  could  have  gone 
straight.    She's  driven  me  to  it — by  Jove,  she  has !" 

"Take  care,  old  chap.     Thev'll  notice  you." 

"I  don't  care  if —  Oh,  all  right,  and  thanks,  Grantley. 
I  don't  want  to  make  an  exhibition  of  myself.  And  I've 
told  nobody  but  you,  of  course," 


46  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Sibylla,  never  long  in  coming  to  conclusions,  had  made 
up  her  mind  about  the  women  before  the  evening  was  half 
over.  Lady  Harriet  was  strange  and  terrible  when  the 
known  facts  of  the  case  were  compared  with  her  indolent 
composure.  Mrs.  Selford  was  trivial  and  tiresome,  but  a 
good  enough  little  silly  soul.  Suzette  Bligh  was  entirely 
negligible ;  she  had  not  spoken  save  to  flirt  very  mildly  with 
Blake.  Mrs.  Raymore  elicited  a  liking,  but  a  rather  timid 
and  distant  one;  she  seemed  very  clear-sighted  and  judi- 
cial. Christine  Fanshaw  attracted  her  most,  first  by  her 
dainty  prettiness,  also  by  the  perfection  of  her  clothes  (a 
thing  Sibylla  much  admired),  most  by  her  friendly  air  and 
the  piquant  suffusion  of  sarcastic  humour  that  she  had. 
She  seemed  to  treat  even  her  own  grievances  in  this  semi- 
serious  way — one  of  them  certainly,  if  her  husband  were 
one.  Such  a  manner  and  such  a  way  of  regarding  things 
are  often  most  attractive  to  the  people  who  would  find  it 
hardest  to  acquire  the  like  for  themselves;  they  seem  to 
make  the  difficulties  which  have  loomed  so  large  look 
smaller — they  extenuate,  smooth  away,  and,  by  the  artifice 
of  not  asking  too  much,  cause  what  is  given  to  appear  a 
more  liberal  instalment  of  the  possible.  They  are  not, 
however,  generally  associated  with  any  high  or  rigid  moral 
ideas,  and  were  not  so  associated  in  the  person  of  pretty 
Christine  Fanshaw.  But  they  are  entirely  compatible  with 
much  worldly  wisdom,  and  breed  a  tolerance  of  unim- 
peachable breadth,  if  not  of  exalted  origin. 

"We'll  be  friends,  won't  we?"  Christine  said  to  Sibylla, 
settling  herself  cosily  by  her.  "I'm  rather  tired  of  all  these 
women,  except  Kate  Raymore,  and  she  doesn't  much  ap- 
prove of  me.    But  I'm  going  to  like  you." 

"Will  you?    I'm  so  glad." 

"And  I  can  be  very  useful  to  you.  I  can  even  improve 
your  frocks — though  this  one's  very  nice;  and  I  can  tell 


INITIATION  47 

you  all  about  husbands.  I  know  a  great  deal — and  I'm 
representative."  She  laughed  gaily.  "John  and  I  are 
quite  representative.  I  like  John  really,  you  know;  he's  a 
good  man — but  he's  selfish.  And  John  likes  me,  but  I'm 
selfish.  And  I  like  teasing  John,  and  he  takes  a  positive 
pleasure  sometimes  in  annoying  me." 

"And  that's  representative?"  smiled  Sibylla. 

"Oh,  not  by  itself,  but  as  an  element,  sandwiched  in 
with  the  rest — with  our  really  liking  one  another  and  get- 
ting on  all  right,  you  know.  And  when  we  quarrel,  it's 
about  something,  not  about  nothing,  like  the  Selfords — 
though  I  don't  know  that  that  is  quite  so  representative, 
after  all."  She  paused  a  moment,  and  resumed  less  gaily, 
with  a  little  wrinkle  on  her  brow :  "At  least,  I  think  John 
really  likes  me.  Sometimes  I'm  not  sure,  though  I  know 
I  like  him ;  and  when  I'm  least  sure  I  tease  him  most." 

"Is  that  a  good  remedy?" 

"Remedy?  No,  it's  temper,  my  dear.  You  see,  there 
was  a  time  when — when  I  didn't  care  whether  he  liked  me 
or  not;  when  I — when  I — well,  when  I  didn't  care,  as  I 
said.  And  I  think  he  felt  I  didn't.  And  I  don't  know 
whether  I've  ever  quite  got  back." 

Ready  with  sympathy,  Sibylla  pressed  the  little  richly 
beringed  hand. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right.  We're  very  lucky.  Look  at  the 
Courtlands." 

"The  poor  Courtlands  seem  to  exist  to  make  other  peo- 
ple appreciate  their  own  good  luck,"  said  Sibylla,  laugh- 
ing a  little. 

"I'm  sure  they  ought  to  make  you  appreciate  yours. 
Grantley  and  Walter  Blake  are  two  of  the  most  sought- 
after  of  men,  and  you've  married  one  of  them,  and  made 
quite  a  conquest  of  the  other  to-night.  Oh,  here  come  the 
men!" 


48  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Young  Blake  came  straight  across  to  them,  and  engaged 
in  a  verbal  fencing-match  with  Christine.  She  took  him 
to  task  for  alleged  dissipation  and  over-much  gaiety;  he 
defended  his  character  and  habits  with  playful  warmth. 
Sibylla  sat  by  silent;  she  was  still  very  ignorant  of  all  the 
life  they  talked  about.  She  knew  that  Christine's  charges 
carried  innuendoes  from  the  way  Blake  met  them,  but  she 
did  not  know  what  the  innuendoes  were.  But  she  was  not 
neglected.  If  his  words  were  for  gay  Christine,  his  eyes 
were  very  constantly  for  the  graver  face  and  the  more 
silent  lips.  He  let  her  see  his  respectful  admiration  in  the 
frank  way  he  had;  nobody  could  take  offence  at  it. 

"I  suppose  you  must  always  have  somebody  to  be  in 
love  with — to  give,  oh,  your  whole  heart  and  soul  to, 
mustn't  you  ?"  Christine  asked  scornfully. 

"Yes,  it's  a  necessity  of  my  nature." 

"That's  what  keeps  you  a  bachelor,  I  suppose?" 

He  laughed,  but,  as  Sibylla  thought,  a  trifle  ruefully, 
or  at  least  as  though  he  were  a  little  puzzled  by  Christine's 
swift  thrust. 

"Keeps  him?  He's  not  old  enough  to  marry  yet,"  she 
pleaded,  and  Blake  gaily  accepted  the  defence. 

Their  talk  was  interrupted  by  Lady  Harriet's  rising; 
her  brougham  had  been  announced.  Grantley  telegraphed 
his  readiness  to  be  off  too,  and  he  and  Sibylla,  after  saying 
good-night,  followed  the  Courtlands  downstairs,  Raymore 
accompanying  them  and  giving  the  men  cigars  while  their 
wives  put  their  cloaks  on.  Grantley  asked  for  a  cab,  which 
was  some  little  while  in  coming;  Tom  Courtland  said  he 
wanted  a  hansom  too,  and  stuck  his  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
puffing  out  a  full  cloud  of  smoke.  At  the  moment  Lady 
Harriet  came  back  into  the  hall,  Sibylla  following  her. 

"Do  you  intend  to  smoke  that  cigar  in  the  brougham  as 
we  go  to  my  mother's  party?"  asked  Lady  Harriet. 


INITIATION  49 

"I'm  not  aware  that  your  mother  minds  smoke;  but  as 
a  matter  of  fact  I'm  not  going  to  the  party  at  all." 

"You're  expected — I  said  you'd  come." 

"I'm  sorry,  Harriet,  but  you  misunderstood  me." 

Tom  Courtland  stood  his  ground  firmly  and  answered 
civilly,  though  with  a  surly  rough  tone  in  his  voice.  His 
wife  was  still  very  quiet,  yet  Raymore  and  Grantley  ex- 
changed apprehensive  looks;  the  lull  before  the  storm  is 
a  well-worked  figure  of  speech,  but  they  knew  it  applied 
very  well  to  Lady  Harriet. 

"You're  going  home  then?" 

"Not  just  now." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  the  club." 

"What  club?" 

"Is  my  cab  there?"  Grantley  called  to  the  butler. 

"Not  yet,  sir;  there'll  be  one  directly." 

"What  club?"  demanded  Lady  Harriet  again. 

"What  does  it  matter?  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind. 
I'm  only  going  to  have  a  rubber." 

Then  it  came — what  Sibylla  had  been  told  about,  what 
the  others  had  seen  before  now.  They  were  all  forgotten 
— host  and  fellow-guests,  even  the  servants,  even  the  cab- 
man, who  heard  the  outburst  and  leant  down  from  his  high 
seat,  trying  to  see.  It  was  like  some  physical  affliction,  an 
utter  loss  of  self-control;  it  was  a  bare  step  distant  from 
violence.  It  was  the  failure  of  civilisation,  the  casting-off 
of  decency,  a  being  abandoned  to  a  raw  fierce  fury. 

"Club !"  she  cried,  a  deep  flush  covering  her  face  and 
all  her  neck.  "Pretty  clubs  you  go  to  at  hard  on  midnight ! 
I  know  you,  I  know  you  too  well,  you — you  liar !" 

Sibylla  crept  behind  Grantley,  passing  her  hand  through 
his  arm.  Tom  Courtland  stood  motionless,  very  white,  a 
stiff  smile  on  his  lips. 


5o  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"You  liar!"  she  said  once  again,  and  without  a  look  at 
any  of  them  swept  down  the  steps.  She  moved  grandly. 
She  came  to  the  door  of  her  brougham,  which  the  footman 
held  for  her.     The  window  was  drawn  up. 

"Have  you  been  driving  with  the  windows  shut?" 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"I  told  you  to  keep  them  down  when  it  was  fine.  Do 
you  want  to  stifle  me,  you  fool?"  She  raised  the  fan  she 
carried;  it  had  stout  ivory  sticks  and  a  large  knob  of  ivory 
at  the  end.  She  dashed  the  knob  against  the  window  with 
all  her  strength ;  the  glass  was  broken  and  fell  clattering 
on  the  pavement  as  Lady  Harriet  got  in.  The  footman 
shut  the  door,  touched  his  hat,  and  joined  the  coachman 
on  the  box. 

With  his  pale  face  and  set  smile,  with  his  miserable  eyes 
and  bowed  shoulders,  Tom  Courtland  went  down  the  steps 
to  his  cab.    Neither  did  he  look  at  any  of  them. 

At  last  Raymore  turned  to  Sibylla. 

"I'm  so  sorry  it  happened  to-night — when  you  were 
here,"  he  said. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  gasped. 

She  looked  from  Grantley  to  Raymore  and  back  again, 
and  read  the  answer  in  their  faces.  They  knew  where 
Tom  Courtland  had  gone.  Grantley  patted  her  hand 
gently,  and  said  to  Raymore : 

"Well,  who  could  stand  a  savage  like  that?" 

It  was  the  recognition  of  a  ruin  inevitable  and  past  cure. 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

THE   BIRTH   OF   STRIFE 

THERE  are  inner  processes  undergone  which  the 
subjects  hardly  realise  themselves,  which  another 
can  explain  by  no  record  however  minute  or  la- 
borious. They  are  in  detail  as  imperceptible,  as  secret, 
as  elusive  as  the  physical  changes  which  pass  upon  the 
face  of  the  body.  From  day  to  day  there  is  no  differ- 
ence; but  days  make  years,  and  years  change  youth  to 
maturity,  maturity  to  decay.  So  in  matters  of  the  soul 
the  daily  trifling  sum  adds  up  and  up.  A  thousand  tiny 
hopes  nipped,  a  thousand  little  expectations  frustrated,  a 
thousand  foolish  fears  proved  not  so  foolish.  Divide 
them  by  the  days,  and  there  is  nothing  to  cry  about  at 
bedtime,  nothing  even  to  pray  about,  if  to  pray  you  are 
inclined.  Yet  as  a  month  passes,  or  two,  or  three,  the  atoms 
seem  to  join  and  form  a  cloud.  The  sunbeams  get  through 
here  and  there  still,  but  the  clear  fine  radiance  is  obscured. 
Presently  the  cloud  thickens,  deepens,  hardens.  It  seems 
now  a  wall,  stout  and  high;  the  gates  are  heavy  and  for- 
bidding, and  they  stand  where  once  there  was  ready  and 
eagerly  welcomed  entrance  and  access.  Think  of  what  it 
is  to  look  for  a  letter  sometimes.  It  comes  not  on  Monday 
— it's  nothing;  nor  on  Tuesday — it's  nothing;  nor  on 
Wednesday — odd!  nor  on  Thursday — strange!  nor  on 
Friday — you  can't  think !  It  comes  not  for  a  week — you 
are  hurt;  for  a  fortnight — you  are  indignant.  A  month 
passes — and  maybe  what  you  prized  most  in  all  your  life 
is  gone.  You  have  been  told  the  truth  in  thirty  broken 
sentences. 

Sibylla  Imason  took  a  reckoning — in  no  formal  manner, 

51 


52  DOUBLE    HARNESS 

not  sitting  down  to  it,  still  less  in  any  flash  of  inspiration 
or  on  the  impulse  of  any  startling  incident.     As  she  went 
to  and  fro  on  her  work  and  her  pleasure,  the  figures  grad- 
ually and  insensibly  set  themselves  in  rows,  added  and  sub- 
tracted themselves,  and  presented  her  with  the  quotient. 
It  was  against  her  will  that  all  this  happened.     She  would 
have  had  none  of  it;  there  was  nothing  to  recommend  it; 
it  was  not  even  unusual.     But  it  would  come — and  what 
did  it  come  to?     Nothing  alarming  or  vulgar  or  sensa- 
tional.    Grantley's  gallantry  forbade  that,  his  good  man- 
ners, his  affectionate  ways,  his  real  love  for  her.     It  was 
forbidden  too  by  the  moments  of  rapture  which  she  ex- 
cited and  which  she  shared;  they  were  still  untouched — the 
fairy  rides  on  fairy  horses.     But  is  it  not  the  virtue  of 
such  things  to  mean  more  than  they  are — to  be  not  inci- 
dents, but  rather  culminations — not  exceptions,   but  the 
very  type,  the  highest  expression,  of  what  is  always  there? 
Even  the  raptures  she  was  coming  to  doubt  while  she  wel- 
comed, to  mistrust  while  she  shared.    Would  she  come  at 
once  to  hate  and  to  strive  after  them? 

In  the  end  it  was  not  the  identity  her  soaring  fancy  had 
pictured,  not  the  union  her  heart  cried  for,  less  even  than 
the  partnership  which  naked  reason  seemed  to  claim.  She 
had  not  become  his  very  self,  as  he  was  of  her  very  self — 
nor  part  of  him.  She  was  to  him — what?  She  sought  a 
word,  at  least  an  idea,  and  smiled  at  one  or  two  which  her 
own  bitterness  offered  to  her.  A  toy?  Of  course  not.  A 
diversion?  Much  more  than  that.  But  still  it  was  some- 
thing accidental,  something  that  he  might  not  have  had 
and  would  have  done  very  well  without;  yet  a  something 
greatly  valued,  tended,  caressed — yes,  and  even  loved.  A 
great  acquisition  perhaps  expressed  it — a  very  prized  pos- 
session— a  cherished  treasure.  Sometimes,  after  putting 
it  as  low  as  she  could  in  chagrin,  she  put  it  as  high  as  she 


BIRTH  OF  STRIFE  53 

could — by  way  of  testing  it.  Put  it  how  she  would,  the 
ultimate  result  worked  out  the  same.  She  made  much  less 
difference  to  Grantley  Imason  than  she  had  looked  to  make; 
she  was  much  less  of  and  in  his  life,  much  less  of  the  essence, 
more  of  an  accretion.  She  was  outside  his  innermost  self 
— a  stranger  to  his  closest  fastnesses.  Was  that  the  nature 
of  the  tie  or  the  nature  of  the  man?  She  cried  out  against 
either  conclusion ;  for  either  ruined  the  hopes  on  which  she 
lived.  Among  them  was  one  mighty  hope.  Were  not 
both  tie  and  man  still  incomplete,  even  as  she,  the  woman, 
was  in  truth  yet  incomplete,  yet  short  of  her  great  function, 
undischarged  of  her  high  natural  office?  Was  there  not 
that  in  her  now  which  should  make  all  things  complete  and 
perfect?  While  that  hope — nay,  that  conviction — re- 
mained she  refused  to  admit  that  she  was  discontent.  She 
waited,  trying  meanwhile  to  smother  the  discontent. 

Of  course  there  was  another  side,  and  Grantley  himself 
put  it  to  Mrs.  Raymore  when,  in  her  sisterly  affection  for 
him  and  her  motherly  interest  in  Sibylla,  she  had  ventured 
on  two  or  three  questions  which,  on  the  smallest  analysis, 
resolved  themselves  into  hints. 

"In  anything  like  a  doubtful  case,"  he  complained  hu- 
morously (for  he  was  not  taking  the  questions  very  seri- 
ously), "the  man  never  gets  fair  play.  He's  not  nearly 
so  picturesque.  And  if  he  becomes  picturesque,  if  he  goes 
through  fits  hot  and  cold,  and  ups  and  downs,  and  all  sorts 
of  convulsions,  as  the  woman  does  and  does  so  effectively, 
he  doesn't  get  any  more  sympathy,  because  it's  not  the  ideal 
for  the  man — not  our  national  ideal,  anyhow.  You  see 
the  dilemma  he's  in?  If  he's  not  emotional  he's  not  inter- 
esting; if  he's  emotional  he's  not  manly.  I'm  speaking 
of  a  doubtful  case  all  the  time.  Of  course  you  may  have 
your  impeccable  Still-Waters-Run-Deep  sort  of  man — the 
part  poor  old  Tom  ought  to  have  played.     But  then  that 


54  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

is  a  part — a  stage  part,  very  seldom  real.  No ;  in  a  doubt- 
ful case  the  man's  nowhere.  Take  it  how  you  will,  the 
woman  is  bound  to  win." 

"Which  means  that  you  don't  want  to  complain  or  criti- 
cise, but  if  I  will  put  impertinent  questions " 

"If  you  put  me  on  my  defence "  he  amended,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Yes,  if  I  put  you  on  your  defence,  you'll  hint " 

"Through  generalities " 

"Yes,  through  generalities  you'll  hint,  in  your  graceful 
way,  that  Sibylla,  of  whom  you're  very  fond " 

"Oh,  be  fair!    You  know  I  am." 

"Is  rather — exacting — fatiguing  ?" 

"That's  too  strong.  Rather,  as  I  say,  emotional.  She 
likes  living  on  the  heights.  I  like  going  up  there  now  and 
then.     In  fact   I  maintain  the  national  ideal." 

"Yes,  I  think  you'd  do  that  very  well — quite  well  enough, 
Grantley." 

"There's  a  sting  in  the  tail  of  your  praise?" 

"After  all,  I'm  a  woman  too." 

"We  really  needn't  fuss  ourselves,  I  think.  You  see, 
she  has  the  great  saving  grace — a  sense  of  humour.  If 
I  perceive  dimly  that  somehow  something  hasn't  been  quite 
what  it  ought  to  have  been,  that  I  haven't — haven't  played 
up  somehow — you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Very  well  indeed,"  Mrs.  Raymore  laughed  gently. 

"I  can  put  it  all  right  by  a  good  laugh — a  bit  of  mock 
heroics,  perhaps — some  good  chaff,  followed  by  a  good 
gallop — not  at  all  a  bad  prescription !  After  a  little  of  that, 
she's  laughing  at  herself  for  having  the  emotions,  and  at 
me  for  not  having  them,  and  at  both  of  us  for  the  whole 
affair." 

"Well,  as  long  as  it  ends  like  that  there's  not  much 
wrong.  But  take  care.  Not  everything  will  stand  the  hu- 
morous aspect,  you  know." 


BIRTH  OF  STRIFE  55 

"Most  things,  thank  heaven,  or  where  should  we  be?" 

"Tom  Courtland,  for  instance?" 

"Oh,  not  any  longer,  I'm  afraid." 

"It  won't  do  for  the  big  things  and  the  desperate  cases; 
not  even  for  other  people's — much  less  for  your  own." 

"I  suppose  not.  If  you  want  it  always,  you  must  be  a 
looker-on ;  and  you'll  tell  me  husbands  can't  be  lookers-on 
at  their  own  marriages?" 

"I  tell  you !  Facts  will  convince  you  sooner  than  I  could, 
Grantley." 

He  was  really  very  reasonable  from  his  own  point  of 
view,  both  reasonable  and  patient.  Mrs.  Raymore  con- 
ceded that.  And  he  was  also  quite  consistent  in  his  point 
of  view.  She  remembered  a  phrase  from  his  letter  which 
had  defined  what  he  was  seeking — "a  completion,  not  a 
transformation."  He  was  pursuing  that  scheme  still — a 
scheme  into  which  the  future  wife  had  fitted  so  easily  and 
perfectly,  into  which  the  actual  wife  fitted  with  more  diffi- 
culty. But  he  was  dealing  with  the  difficulty  in  a  very 
good  spirit  and  a  very  good  temper.  If  the  scheme  were 
possible  at  all — given  Sibylla  as  she  was — he  was  quite 
the  man  to  put  it  through  successfully.  But  she  reserved 
her  opinion  as  to  its  possibility.  The  reservation  did  not 
imply  an  approval  of  Sibylla  or  any  particular  inclination 
to  champion  her;  it  marked  only  a  growing  understanding 
of  what  Sibylla  was,  a  growing  doubt  as  to  what  she  could 
be  persuaded  or  moulded  into  becoming.  Mrs.  Raymore 
had  no  prejudices  in  her  favour. 

And  at  any  rate  he  was  still  her  lover,  as  fully,  as  ardently 
as  ever.  Deep  in  those  fastnesses  of  his  nature  were  his 
love  for  her,  and  his  pride  in  her  and  in  having  her  for  his 
own.  The  two  things  grew  side  by  side,  their  roots  inter- 
tangled.  Every  glance  of  admiration  she  won,  every  mur- 
mur of  approval  she  created,  gave  him  joy  and  seemed  to 


56  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

give  him  tribute.  He  eagerly  gathered  in  the  envy  of  the 
world  as  food  for  his  own  exultation ;  he  laughed  in  pleas- 
ure when  Christine  Fanshaw  told  him  to  look  and  see  how 
Walter  Blake  adored  Sibylla. 

"Of  course  he  does — he's  a  sensible  young  fellow,"  said 
Grantley  gaily.    "So  am  I,  Christine,  and  I  adore  her  too." 

"The  captive  of  your  bow  and  spear!"  Christine 
sneered. 

"Of  my  personal  attractions,  please !  Don't  say  of  my. 
money-bags!" 

"She's  like  a  very  laudatory  testimonial." 

"I  just  wonder  how  John  Fanshaw  endures  you." 

He  answered  her  with  jests,  never  thinking  to  deny  what 
she  said.  He  did  delight  in  his  wife's  triumphs.  Was 
there  anything  unamiable  in  that?  If  close  union  were 
the  thing,  was  not  that  close  ?  Her  triumphs  made  his — 
what  could  be  closer  than  that?  At  this  time  any  criticism 
of  him  was  genuinely  unintelligible;  he  could  make  nothing 
of  it,  and  reckoned  it  as  of  no  account.  And  Sibylla  her- 
self, as  he  had  said,  he  could  always  soothe. 

"And  she's  going  on  quite  all  right?"  Christine  con- 
tinued. 

"Splendidly !  We've  got  her  quietly  fixed  down  at  Mill- 
dean,  with  her  favourite  old  woman  to  look  after  her. 
There  she'll  stay.  I  run  up  to  town  two  or  three  times  a 
week — do  my  business " 

"Call  on  me?" 

"I  ventured  so  far — and  get  back  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"You  must  be  very  pleased?" 

"Of  course  I'm  pleased,"  he  laughed,  "very  pleased  in- 
deed, Christine." 

He  was  very  much  pleased,  and  laughed  at  himself,  as 
he  had  laughed  at  others,  for  being  a  little  proud  too.  He 
had  wanted  the  dynasty  carried  on.    There  was  every  pros- 


BIRTH  OF  STRIFE  57 

pect  of  a  start  being  made  in  that  direction  very  prosper- 
ously. He  would  have  hated  to  have  it  otherwise;  there 
would  have  been  a  sense  of  incompleteness  then. 

"I  needn't  tell  a  wise  woman  like  you  that  there's  some 
trouble  about  such  things,"  he  went  on. 

"No  doubt  there  is,"  smiled  Christine.  "But  you  can 
leave  most  of  that  to  Sibylla  and  the  favourite  old  woman," 
she  added  a  moment  later,  with  her  eyes  on  Grantley's  con- 
tented face,  and  that  touch  of  acidity  in  her  clear-toned 
voice. 

Between  being  pleased — even  very  much  pleased  indeed 
— and  a  little  proud  over  a  thing  (notwithstanding  the 
trouble  there  is  about  it),  and  looking  on  it  as  one  of  the 
greatest  things  that  Heaven  itself  ever  did,  there  is  a  wide 
gulf,  if  not  exactly  of  opinion,  yet  of  feeling  and  attitude. 
From  the  first  moment  Sibylla  had  known  of  it,  the  coming 
of  the  child  was  the  great  thing,  the  overshadowing  thing, 
in  life.  Nature  was  in  this,  and  nature  at  her  highest 
power;  more  was  not  needed.  Yet  there  was  more,  to  make 
the  full  cup  brim  over.  Her  great  talent,  her  strongest  in- 
nate impulse,  was  to  give — to  give  herself  and  all  she  had; 
and  this  talent  and  impulse  her  husband  had  not  satisfied. 
He  was  immured  in  his  fastness;  he  seemed  to  want  only 
what  she  counted  small  tributes  and  minor  sacrifices — they 
had  appeared  large  once,  no  doubt,  but  now  looked  small 
because  they  fell  short  of  the  largest  that  were  possible. 
The  great  satisfaction,  the  great  outlet,  lay  in  the  coming 
of  the  child.  In  pouring  out  her  love  on  the  head  of  the 
child  she  would  at  the  same  time  pour  it  out  at  the  feet 
of  him  whose  the  child  was.  Before  such  splendid  lavish- 
ness  he  must  at  last  stand  disarmed,  he  must  throw  open 
all  his  secret  treasure-house.  His  riches  of  love — of  more 
than  lover's  love — must  come  forth  too,  and  mingle  in  the 
same  golden  stream  with  hers,  all  separation  being  swept 


58  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

away.  Here  was  the  true  realisation,  foreshadowed  by 
the  fairy  ride  in  the  early  days  of  their  love ;  here  was  the 
true  riding  into  the  gold  and  letting  the  gold  swallow  them 
up.  In  this  all  disappointments  should  vanish,  all  nipped 
hopes  come  to  bloom  again.  For  it  her  heart  cried  impa- 
tiently, but  chid  itself  for  its  impatience.  Had  not  Mrs. 
Mumple  waited  years  in  solitude  and  silence  outside  the 
prison  gates?    Could  not  she  wait  a  little  too? 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  in  such  a  position  of  affairs 
as  had  been  reached  Mrs.  Mumple  was  much  to  the  fore. 
Her  presence  was  indispensable,  and  valued  as  such,  but 
it  had  some  disadvantages.  She  shared  Sibylla's  views  and 
Sibylla's  temperament;  but  naturally  she  did  not  possess 
the  charm  of  youth,  of  beauty,  and  of  circumstance  which 
served  so  well  to  soften  or  to  recommend  them.  The  sort 
of  atmosphere  which  Mrs.  Mumple  carried  with  her  was 
one  which  should  be  diffused  sparingly  and  with  great  cau- 
tion about  a  man  at  once  so  self-centred  and  so  fastidious 
as  Grantley  Imason.  Mrs.  Mumple  was  lavishly  affection- 
ate; she  was  also  pervasive,  and,  finally,  a  trifle  inclined 
to  be  tearful  on  entirely  inadequate  provocation — or,  as  it 
appeared  to  any  masculine  mind,  on  none  at  all,  since  the 
tendency  assailed  her  most  when  everything  seemed  to  be 
going  on  remarkably  well.  Her  physical  bulk  too  was 
a  matter  which  she  should  have  considered;  and  yet  per- 
haps she  could  hardly  be  expected  to  think  of  that. 

Of  course  Jeremy  Chiddingfold,  neither  lover  nor  father, 
and  with  his  youthful  anti-femininism  still  held  and  prized, 
put  the  case  a  thousand  times  too  high,  exaggerating  all  one 
side,  utterly  ignoring  all  the  other,  of  what  Grantley  might 
be  feeling.  None  the  less,  there  was  some  basis  of  truth 
in  his  exclamation: 

"If  they  go  on  like  this,  Grantley'll  be  sick  to  death  of 
the  whole  thing  before  it's  half  overl" 


BIRTH  OF  STRIFE  59 

And  Jeremy  had  come  to  read  his  brother-in-law  pretty 
well — to  know  his  self-centredness,  to  know  his  fastidious- 
ness, to  know  how  easily  he  might  be  "put  off"  (as  Jeremy 
phrased  it)  by  an  intrusion  too  frequent  and  importunate 
or  a  sentiment  extravagant  in  any  degree  or  the  least  over- 
strained. Too  high  a  pressure  might  well  result  in  a  re- 
action ;  it  would  breed  the  thought  that  the  matter  in  hand 
was,  after  all,  decidedly  normal. 

But  altogether  normal  it  was  not  destined  to  remain. 
Minded,  as  it  might  seem,  to  point  the  situation  and  to 
force  latent  antagonisms  of  feeling  to  an  open  conflict,  Mis- 
tress Chance  took  a  hand  in  the  game.  On  arriving  at  the 
Fairhaven  station  from  one  of  his  expeditions  to  town, 
Grantley  found  Jeremy  awaiting  him.  Jeremy  was  pale, 
but  his  manner  kept  its  incisiveness,  his  speech  its  lucidity. 
Sibylla  had  met  with  an  accident.  She  had  still  been  taking 
quiet  rides  on  a  trusty  old  horse.  To-day,  contrary  to  his 
advice  and  in  face  of  Grantley's,  she  had  insisted  on  riding 
another — the  young  horse,  as  they  called  it. 

"She  was  in  one  of  her  moods,"  Jeremy  explained.  "She 
said  she  wanted  more  of  a  fight  than  the  old  horse  gave 
her.  She  would  go.  Well,  you  know  that  great  beast  of  a 
dog  of  Jarman's?  It  was  running  loose — I  saw  it  myself; 
indeed  I  saw  the  whole  thing.  She  was  trotting  along, 
thinking  of  nothing  at  all,  I  suppose.  The  dog  started 
a  rabbit,  and  came  by  her  with  a  bound.  The  horse  started, 
jumped  half  his  own  height — or  it  looked  like  it — and  she 
— came  off,  you  know,  pitched  clean  out  of  her  saddle." 

"Clear  of  the ?" 

"Yes,  thank  God — but  she  came  down  with  an  awful — 
an  awful  thud.  I  ran  up  as  quick  as  I  could.  She  was  un- 
conscious. A  couple  of  labourers  helped  me  to  take  her 
home,  and  I  got  Mumples ;  and  on  my  way  here  I  stopped 
at  Gardiner's  and  sent  him  there,  and  came  on  to  tell  you." 


60  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

By  now  they  were  getting  into  the  dog-cart. 
"Do  you  know  at  all  how  bad  it  is?"  asked  Grantley. 
"Not  the  least.     How  should  I?" 
"Well,  we  must  get  home  as  quick  as  we  can." 
Grantley  did  not  speak  again  the  whole  way.    His  mind 
had  been  full  of  plans  that  morning.     His  position  as  a 
man  of  land  at  Milldean  was  opening  new  prospects  to 
him.     He  had  agreed  to  come  forward  for  election  as  a 
county  alderman;  he  had  been  sounded  as  to  contesting  the 
seat  for  the  Division.     He  had  been  very  full  of  these  no- 
tions, and  had  meant  to  spend  two  or  three  quiet  days  in 
reviewing  and  considering  them.     This  sudden  shock  was 
hard  to  face  and  realise.     It  was  difficult,  too,  to  conceive 
of  anything  being  wrong  with  Sibylla — always  so  fine  an 
embodiment  of  physical  health  and  vigour.     He  felt  very 
helpless  and  in  terrible  distress;  it  turned  him  sick  to  think 
of  the  "awful  thud"  that  Jeremy  described.    What  would 
that  mean?     What  was  the  least  it  might,  the  most  it 
could,  mean? 

"You  don't  blame  me?"  Jeremy  asked  as  they  came  near 
home. 

"You  advised  her  not  to  ride  the  beast :  what  more  could 
you  do?     You  couldn't  stop  her  by  force." 

He  spoke  rather  bitterly,  as  though  sorrow  and  fear 
had  not  banished  anger  when  he  thought  of  his  wife  and 
her  wilfulness. 

Jeremy  turned  aside  into  the  garden,  begging  to  have 
news  as  soon  as  there  was  any.  Grantley  went  into  his 
study,  and  Mrs.  Mumple  came  to  him  there.  She  was 
pitiably  undone  and  dishevelled.  It  was  impossible  not  to 
respect  her  grief,  but  no  less  impossible  to  get  any  clear 
information  from  her.  Lamentations  alternated  with  at- 
tempted excuses  for  Sibylla's  obstinacy;  she  tried  to  make 
out  that  she  herself  was  in  some  way  to  blame  for  having 


BIRTH  OF  STRIFE  61 

brought  on  the  mood  which  had  in  its  turn  produced  the 
obstinacy.  Grantley,  striving  after  outward  calm,  raged 
in  his  heart  against  the  fond  foolish  old  woman. 

"I  want  to  know  what's  happened,  not  whose  fault  it'll 
be  held  to  be  at  the  Day  of  Judgment,  Mrs.  Mumple. 
Since  you're  incapable  of  telling  me  anything,  have  the 
goodness  to  send  Dr.  Gardiner  to  me  as  soon  as  he  can 
leave  Sibylla." 

Very  soon,  yet  only  just  in  time  to  stop  Grantley  from 
going  upstairs  himself,  Gardiner  came.  He  was  an  elderly 
quiet-going  country  practitioner;  he  lived  in  one  of  the  red 
villas  at  the  junction  with  the  main  road,  and  plied  a  not 
very  lucrative  practice  among  the  farmhouses  and  cottages. 
His  knowledge  was  neither  profound  nor  recent;  he  had 
not  kept  up  his  reading,  and  his  practical  opportunities 
had  been  very  few.  He  seemed,  when  he  came,  a  good  deal 
upset  and  decidedly  nervous,  as  though  he  were  faced  with 
a  sudden  responsibility  by  no  means  to  his  liking.  He 
kept  wiping  his  brow  with  a  threadbare  red  silk  handker- 
chief and  pulling  his  straggling  gray  whiskers  while  he 
talked.  In  a  second  Grantley  had  decided  that  no  confi- 
dence could  be  placed  in  him.  Still  he  must  be  able  to  tell 
what  was  the  matter. 

"Quickly  and  plainly,  please,  Dr.  Gardiner,"  he  request- 
ed, noting  with  impatience  that  Mrs.  Mumple  had  come 
back  and  stood  there  listening;  but  she  would  cry  and 
think  him  a  monster  if  he  sent  her  away. 

"She's  conscious  now,"  the  doctor  reported,  "but  she's 
very  prostrate — suffering  from  severe  shock.  I  think  you 
shouldn't  see  her  for  a  little  while." 

"What's  the  injury,  Dr.  Gardiner?" 

"The  shock  is  severe." 

"Will  it  kill  her?" 

"No,  no!  The  shock  kill  her?  Oh,  no,  no!  She  has 
a  splendid  constitution.     Kill  her?    Oh,  no,  no!" 


62  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"And  is  that  all?" 

"No,  not  quite  all,  Mr.  Imason.  There  is — er — in  fact, 
a  local  injury,  a  fracture,  due  to  the  force  of  the  impact 
on  the  ground." 

"Is  that  serious?  Pray  be  quiet,  Mrs.  Mumple.  You 
really  must  restrain  your  feelings." 

"Serious?  Oh,  undoubtedly,  undoubtedly!  I — I  can't 
say  it  isn't  serious.    I  should  be  doing  wrong " 

"In  one  word,  is  it  fatal,  or  likely  to  be  fatal?" 

Grantley  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  forced  patience. 
He  had  looked  for  a  man — he  had,  it  seemed,  found  an- 
other old  woman ;  so  he  angrily  thought  within  himself  as 
old  Gardiner  stumbled  over  his  words  and  worried  his 
whiskers. 

"If  I  were  to  explain  the  case  in  detail " 

"Presently,  doctor,  presently.  Just  now  I  want  the  re- 
sult— the  position  of  affairs,  you  know." 

"For  the  moment,  Mr.  Imason,  there  is  no  danger  to 
Mrs.  Imason — I  think  I  may  say  that.  But  the  injury 
creates  a  condition  of  things  which  might,  and  in  my  judg- 
ment would,  prove  dangerous  to  her  as  time  went  on.  I 
speak  in  view  of  her  present  condition." 

"I  see.     Could  that  be  obviated?" 

Gardiner's  nervousness  increased. 

"By  an  operation  directed  to  remove  the  cause  which 
would  produce  danger.  It  would  be  a  serious,  perhaps  a 
dangerous,  operation " 

"Is  that  the  only  way?" 

"In  my  judgment  the  only  way  consistent  with- 


A  loud  sob  from  Mrs.  Mumple  interrupted  him.  Grant- 
ley  swore  under  his  breath. 
"Go  on,"  he  said  harshly. 

"Consistent  with  the  birth  of  the  child,  Mr.  Imason." 
"Ah !"     At  last  he  had  got  to  the  light,  and  the  ner- 


BIRTH  OF  STRIFE  63 

vous  old  man  had  managed  to  deliver  himself  of  his  mes- 
sage. "I  understand  you  now.  Setting  the  birth  of  the 
child  on  one  side,  the  matter  would  be  simpler?" 

"Oh,  yes,  much  simpler — not,  of  course,  without 
its " 

"And  more  free  from  danger?" 

"Yes,  though " 

"Practically  free  from  danger  to  my  wife?" 

"Yes;  I  think  I  can  say  practically  free  in  the  case  of 
so  good  a  subject  as  Mrs.  Imason." 

Grantley  thought  for  a  minute. 

"You  probably  wouldn't  object  to  my  having  another 
opinion?"  he  asked. 

Relief  was  obvious  on  old  Gardiner's  face. 

"I  should  welcome  it,"  he  said.  "The  responsibility  in 
such  a  case  is  so  great  that " 

"Tell  me  the  best  man,  and  I'll  wire  for  him  at  once." 

Even  on  this  point  Gardiner  hesitated,  till  Grantley 
named  a  man  known  to  everybody;  him  Gardiner  at  once 
accepted. 

"Very  well;  and  I'll  see  my  wife  as  soon  as  you  think  it 
desirable."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  went  on :  "If 
I  understand  the  case  right,  I  haven't  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion in  my  mind.  But  I  should  like  to  ask  you  one  ques- 
tion :  am  I  right  in  supposing  that  your  practice  is  to  prefer 
the  mother's  life  to  the  child's?" 

"That's  the  British  medical  practice,  Mr.  Imason, 
where  the  alternative  is  as  you  put  it.  But  there  are,  of 
course,  degrees  of  danger,  and  these  would  influence " 

"You've  told  me  the  danger  might  be  serious.  That's 
enough.  Dr.  Gardiner,  pending  the  arrival  of  your  col- 
league, the  only  thing — the  only  thing — you  have  to  think 
of  is  my  wife.  Those  are  my  definite  wishes,  please. 
You'll  remain  here,  of  course?  Thank  you.  We'll  have 
another  talk  later.    I  want  to  speak  to  Jeremy  now." 


64  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

He  turned  toward  the  window,  meaning  to  join  Jeremy 
in  the  garden  and  report  to  him.  Mrs.  Mumple  came  for- 
ward, waving  her  hands  helplessly  and  weeping  profusely. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Imason,  imagine  the  poor,  poor  little  child!" 
she  stammered.     "I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it." 

Grantley's  impatience  broke  out  in  savage  bluntness. 

"Against  her  I  don't  care  that  for  the  child!"  he  said, 
snapping  his  fingers  as  he  went  out. 


CHAPTER    SIX 

NOT    PEACE    BUT   A    SWORD 

NO  doubt  the  bodily  shock,  the  laceration  of 
her  nerves,  and  the  condition  she  was  in  had 
something  to  do  with  the  way  Sibylla  looked  at 
the  matter  and  with  the  attitude  which  she  took  up. 
These  accidental  circumstances  gave  added  force  to  what 
was  the  natural  outcome  of  her  disposition.  A  further 
current  of  feeling,  sweeping  her  in  the  same  direction,  lay 
in  the  blame  which  she  eagerly  fastened  on  herself.  Her 
wilfulness  and  heedlessness  cried  out  to  her  for  an  atone- 
ment; she  was  eager  to  make  an  appeasing  sacrifice  and 
caught  at  the  opportunity,  embracing  readily  the  worst 
view  of  the  case,  drawing  from  that  view  an  unhesitating 
conclusion  as  to  what  her  duty  was.  Thus  deduced,  the 
duty  became  a  feverish  desire ;  her  only  fear  was  that  she 
might  be  baulked  of  its  realisation.  She  had  risked  her 
child's  life;  let  her  risk  her  life  for  her  child.  That  idea 
was  by  itself,  and  by  its  innate  propriety,  enough  to  inspire 
her  mind  and  to  decide  her  will.  It  was  but  to  accumulate 
reasons  beyond  need  when  she  reminded  herself  that  even 
before  the  accident  all  her  weal  had  hung  on  the  child, 
every  chance  which  remained  of  overcoming  certain  fail- 
ure, of  achieving  still  the  splendid  success  of  which  she 
had  dreamed,  in  her  life  and  marriage.  The  specialist  was 
to  arrive  the  next  morning;  she  was  reluctant  to  wait  even 
for  that.  Old  Gardiner  was  for  her  an  all-wise  all-suf- 
ficient oracle  of  the  facts,  because  he  had  declared  them  to 
be  such  as  fitted  into  the  demands  of  her  heart  and  of  her 
mood.     Left  to  herself  she  would  have  constrained  his 

6* 


66  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

fears,  overborne  his  doubts,  and  forced  him  to  her  will; 
he  would  have  stammered  all  in  vain  about  what  was  the 
British  medical  practice.  As  it  was,  open-eyed,  refusing 
to  seek  sleep,  strung  up  by  excitement,  all  through  the 
evening  she  battled  against  her  husband  for  her  way. 

If  she  had  no  hesitation  in  one  view,  Grantley  never 
wavered  from  the  other.  The  plain  unreasonableness  of 
not  awaiting  the  specialist's  verdict  was  not  hard  to  en- 
force. Sibylla,  professing  to  yield,  yet  still  assumed  what 
the  verdict  would  be,  and  pressed  for  a  promise.  At  first 
he  evaded  her  urgency  by  every  device  of  soothing  counsels, 
of  entreaties  that  she  would  rest,  of  affectionate  reproofs. 
She  would  not  allow  evasion.  Then  when  his  refusal  came, 
it  came  tenderly,  inspired  by  his  love  for  her,  based  on  an 
appeal  to  that.  It  was  on  this  that  he  had  relied.  He  was 
puzzled  that  it  failed  of  the  full  effect  he  had  looked  for; 
and,  beyond  the  puzzle,  gradually  a  sense  of  bitter  hurt 
and  soreness  grew  up  in  his  mind.  He  did  not  know  of 
the  secret  connection  in  her  thoughts  between  the  child 
and  an  ideal  perfecting  of  the  love  between  her  and  him; 
she  was  at  once  too  self-engrossed  to  allow  for  his  igno- 
rance, and  too  persuaded  that  her  hopes  must  be  secret  if 
they  were  to  remain  hopes  at  all.  He  saw  only  that  when 
he  persuaded,  cajoled,  flattered,  and  caressed  as  a  lover, 
he  failed.  His  power  seemed  gone.  Her  appeal  to  him 
was  in  another  character,  and  that  very  fact  seemed  to  put 
him  on  a  lower  plane.  He  had  not  doubted  for  a  moment 
what  came  first  to  him — it  was  her  life,  her  well-being,  his 
love  of  her.  As  she  persisted  in  her  battle,  the  feeling 
grew  that  she  made  an  inadequate  return,  and  showed  an 
appreciation  short  of  what  was  his  due.  Gradually  his 
manner  hardened,  his  decision  was  expressed  more  firmly; 
he  stiffened  into  a  direct  antagonism,  and  interposed  his 
will  and  his  authority  to  effect  what  his  love  and  his  en- 


NOT  PEACE,  BUT  A  SWORD  67 

treaties  had  failed  to  win.  He  never  lacked  courtesy;  he 
could  not,  under  such  circumstances  as  these,  desire  to  fail 
in  gentleness.  But  it  was  his  will  against  hers  now,  and 
what  his  will  was  he  conveyed  clearly. 

A  trained  nurse  had  arrived  from  Fairhaven;  but  Si- 
bylla vehemently  preferred  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Mumple, 
and  it  was  Mrs.  Mumple  whom  Grantley  left  with  her 
when  he  came  down  to  his  study  about  midnight.  He 
had  not  dined,  and  a  cold  supper  was  laid  out  on  the  table. 
Jeremy  was  there,  trying  to  read,  eyeing  the  supper  raven- 
ously, yet  ashamed  of  being  hungry.  He  fell  on  the  beef 
with  avidity  when  Grantley  observed  that  anyhow  starving 
themselves  could  serve  no  useful  purpose.  Grantley  was 
worried,  but  not  anxious;  he  had  confidence  in  the  special- 
ist, and  even  in  Gardiner's  view  there  was  no  danger  if  the 
right  course  were  followed.  To  the  disappointment  which 
that  course  involved  he  had  schooled  himself,  accepting  it 
almost  gladly  as  by  so  far  the  lesser  evil. 

"If  you  were  to  talk  to  Sibylla  now,1'  he  said,  "I  think 
you'd  be  reminded  of  those  old  days  you  once  told  me 
about.  Fate  has  thumped  her  pretty  severely  for  anything 
she  did,'  but  she's  mortally  anxious  to  be  thumped  more, 
and  very  angry  with  me  because  I  won't  allow  it.  Upon 
my  word  I  believe  she'd  be  disappointed  if  Tarlton  told 
us  that  the  thing  wasn't  so  bad  after  all,  and  that  every- 
thing would  go  right  without  anything  being  done." 

"I  daresay  she  would;  but  there's  no  chance  of  that?" 

"Well,  I'm  afraid  not.  One  must  believe  one's  medical 
man,  I  suppose,  even  if  he's  old  Gardiner — and  he  seems 
quite  sure  of  it."  Grantley  drank  and  sighed.  "It's  un- 
commonly perverse,  when  everything  was  so  prosperous 
before." 

The  day  had  left  its  traces  on  Jeremy.  Though  he  had 
not  told  Grantley  so,  yet  when  he  saw  Sibylla  thrown  he 


68  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

had  made  no  doubt  she  was  killed — and  she  was  the  one 
person  in  the  world  whom  he  deeply  loved.  That  fear  was 
off  him  now,  but  the  memory  of  it  softened  him  toward 
her — even  toward  her  foolishness,  which  he  had  been  wont 
to  divide  very  distinctly  from  her,  and  to  consider  himself 
free  to  deal  with  faithfully. 

"At  best  it'll  be  a  most  awful  disappointment  to  her." 

"Yes,  it  must  be  that — and  to  me  too,"  said  Grantley. 

"She  was  just  living  in  and  for  the  thing,  you  know." 

Grantley  made  no  answer  this  time;  a  shade  of  annoy- 
ance passed  over  his  face. 

"She  never  could  give  herself  to  more  than  one  thing  at 
a  time — with  her  that  one  thing  was  always  the  whole  hog, 
and  there  was  nothing  else.  That's  just  how  it's  been  now." 

Jeremy's  words  showed  true  sympathy,  and,  moreover, 
a  new  absence  of  shame  in  expressing  it;  but  Grantley  did 
not  accord  them  much  apparent  welcome.  They  came  too 
near  to  confirming  his  suspicions;  they  harmonised  too 
well  with  the  soreness  which  remained  from  his  impotent 
entreaties  and  unpersuasive  caresses.  Again  without  an- 
swering, he  got  up  and  lit  his  cigar. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  Jeremy  went  on,  "while  you  were 
with  Sibylla  that  girl  from  the  rectory  came  up— you 
know,  Dora  Hutting — to  ask  after  Sibylla  and  say  they 
were  all  awfully  sorry  and  anxious,  and  all  that,  you 
know." 

"Very  kind  of  them.  I  hope  you  told  her  soT  and  said 
what  you  could?" 

"Yes,  that's  all  right.  The  girl  seems  awfully  fond  of 
Sibylla,  Grantley.  By  Jove,  when  we  got  talking  about 
her,  she — she  began  to  cry!" 

Grantley  turned  round,  smiling  at  the  unaccustomed 
note  of  pathos  struck  by  Jeremy's  tone. 

"Rather  decent  of  her,  wasn't  it?"  asked  Jeremy. 


NOT  PEACE,  BUT  A  SWORD  69 

"Very  nice.     Did  you  console  her?" 

uOh,  I  didn't  see  what  the  devil  I  could  say.  Besides 
I  didn't  feel  very  comfortable — it  was  rather  awkward." 

"I  believe  the  girl's  afraid  of  me — she  always  seems  to 
come  here  when  I'm  away.  Is  she  a  pleasant  girl,  Jer- 
emy?" 

uOh,  she — she  seemed  all  right;  and  I — I  liked  the 
way  she  felt  about  Sibylla." 

"So  do  I,  and  I'll  thank  her  for  it.  Is  she  getting  at  all 
prettier?" 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  call  her  bad-looking,  don't  you 
know." 

"She  used  to  be  a  bit  spotty,"  yawned  Grantley. 

"I  don't  think  she's  spotty  now." 

"Well,  thank  heaven  for  that  anyhow!"  said  Grantley 
piously.     "I  hate  spots  above  anything,  Jeremy." 

"She  hasn't  got  any,  I  tell  you,"  said  Jeremy,  distinctly 
annoyed. 

Grantley  smiled  sleepily,  threw  himself  on  to  his  favour- 
ite couch,  laid  down  his  cigar,  and  closed  his  eyes.  After 
the  strain  he  was  weary,  and  soon  his  regular  breathing 
showed  that  he  slept.  Jeremy  had  got  his  pipe  alight  and 
sat  smoking,  from  time  to  time  regarding  his  brother-in^ 
law's  handsome  features  with  an  inquiring  gaze.  There 
was  a  new  stir  of  feeling  in  Jeremy.  A  boy  of  strong  intel- 
lectual bent,  he  had  ripened  slowly  on  the  emotional  side, 
and  there  had  been  nothing  in  the  circumstances  or  chances 
of  his  life  to  quicken  the  process  thus  naturally  very  grad- 
ual. To-day  something  had  come.  He  had  been  violently 
snatched  from  his  quiet  and  his  isolation,  confronted  with 
a  crisis  that  commanded  feeling,  probed  to  the  heart  of  his 
being  by  love  and  fear.  Under  this  call  from  life  nascent 
feelings  grew  to  birth,  and  suppressed  impulses  struggled 
for  liberty  and  for  power.     He  was  not  now  resisting 


7o  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

them  nor  turning  from  them.  He  was  watching,  waiting, 
puzzling  about  them,  hiding  them  still  from  others,  but 
no  longer  denying  them  to  himself.  He  was  wondering 
and  astir.  The  manhood  which  had  come  upon  him  was 
a  strange  thing;  the  life  that  called  him  seemed  now  full 
of  new  and  strange  things.  Through  his  fear  and  love  for 
Sibylla  he  was  entering  on  new  realms  of  experience  and  of 
feeling.  He  sat  smoking  hard  and  marvelling  that  Grant- 
ley  slept. 

Connected  with  this  upheaval  of  mental  conceptions 
which  had  hitherto  maintained  an  aspect  so  boldly  funda- 
mental, and  claimed  to  be  the  veritable  rock  of  thought 
whereon  Jeremy  built  his  church,  was  the  curious  circum- 
stance that  he  suddenly  found  himself  rather  sensitive 
about  Grantley's  careless  criticism  of  Miss  Dora  Hutting's 
appearance.  He  had  not  denied  the  fact  alleged  about  it, 
though  he  had  the  continuance  of  it.  But  he  resented  its 
mention  even  as  he  questioned  the  propriety  of  Grantley's 
sleeping.  The  reference  assorted  ill  with  his  appreciation 
of  Dora's  brimming  eyes  and  over-brimming  sympathies. 
That  he  could  not  truthfully  have  denied  the  fact  increased 
his  annoyance.  It  seemed  mean  to  remember  the  spots  that 
had  been  on  the  face  to  which  those  brimming  eyes  belonged 
— as  mean  as  it  would  have  been  in  himself  to  recall  the  by- 
gone grievances  and  the  old — the  suddenly  old-grown — 
squabbles  which  he  had  had  with  the  long-legged  rectory 
girl.  That  old  epithet  too !  A  sudden  sense  of  profanity 
shot  across  him  as  it  came  into  his  mind;  he  stood  incom- 
prehensibly accused  of  irreverence  in  his  own  eyes. 

Yet  the  spots  had  existed,  and  Sibylla  had  been  wrong 
— had  been  wrong,  and  was  now,  it  appeared,  unreasona- 
ble. Moreover,  beyond  question,  Mumples  was  idiotic. 
Reason  was  alarmed  in  him,  since  it  was  threatened.  He 
told  himself  that  Grantley  was  very  sensible  to  sleep.    But 


NOT  PEACE,  BUT  A  SWORD  71 

himself  he  could  not  think  of  sleep,  and  his  ears  were 
hungry  for  every  sound  from  the  floor  above. 

The  stairs  creaked — there  was  a  sniff.  Mrs.  Mumple 
was  at  the  door.  Jeremy  made  an  instinctive  gesture  for 
silence  because  Grantley  slept.  He  watched  Mrs.  Mumple 
as  she  turned  her  eyes  on  the  peacefully  reposing  form. 
The  eyes  turned  sharp  to  him,  and  Mrs.  Mumple  raised 
her  fat  hands  just  a  little  and  let  them  fall  softly. 

"He's  asleep?"  she  whispered. 

"You  see  he  is.  Best  thing  for  him  to  do,  too."  His 
answering  whisper  was  gruff. 

"She's  not  sleeping,"  said  Mrs.  Mumple;  "and  she's 
asking  for  him  again." 

"Then  we'd  better  wake  him  up."  He  spoke  irritably 
as  he  rose  and  touched  Grantley's  shoulder.  "He  must 
be  tired  out,  don't  you  see?" 

Mrs.  Mumple  made  no  answer.  She  raised  and  dropped 
her  hands  again. 

Grantley  awoke  lightly  and  easily,  almost  unconscious 
that  he  had  slept. 

"What  were  we  talking  about?  Oh,  yes,  Dora  Hut- 
ting!   Why,  I  believe  I've  been  asleep!" 

"You've  slept  nearly  an  hour,"  said  Jeremy,  going  back 
to  his  chair. 

Grantley's  eyes  fell  on  Mrs.  Mumple;  a  slight  air  of 
impatience  marked  his  manner  as  he  asked: 

"Is  anything  wrong,  Mrs.  Mumple?" 

"She's  asking  for  you  again,  Mr.  Imason." 

"Dear  me,  Gardiner  said  she  should  be  kept  quiet!" 

"The  doctor's  lying  down.  But  she'll  not  rest  without 
seeing  you;  she's  fretting  so." 

"Have  you  been  letting  her  talk  about  it  and  excite 
herself?    Have  you  been  talking  to  her  yourself?" 

"How  can  we  help  talking  about  it?"  Mrs.  Mumple 
moaned. 


72  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"It's  infernally  silly — infernally!"  he  exclaimed  in  ex- 
asperation. "Well,  I  must  go  to  her,  I  suppose."  He 
turned  to  Jeremy.  "It'll  be  better  if  you'll  keep  Mrs. 
Mumple  with  you.     We'll  get  the  nurse  to  go  to  Sibylla." 

"I  can't  leave  her  as  she  is,"  said  Mrs.  Mumple,  threat- 
ening a  fresh  outburst  of  tears. 

Grantley  walked  out  of  the  room,  muttering  savagely. 
The  strain  of  irritation,  largely  induced  by  Mrs.  Mumple's 
lachrymosely  reproachful  glances  and  faithful  doglike  per- 
sistency, robbed  him  of  the  tenderness  by  which  alone  he 
might  possibly  have  won  his  wife's  willing  obedience  and 
perhaps  convinced  her  reason  through  her  love.  He  used 
his  affection  now  not  in  appeal,  but  as  an  argumentative 
point.  He  found  in  her  a  hard  opposition;  she  seemed  to 
look  at  him  with  a  sort  of  dislike,  a  mingling  of  fear  and 
wonder.  Thus  she  listened  in  silence  to  his  cold  marshall- 
ing of  the  evidences  of  his  love  and  his  deliberate  enforc- 
ing of  the  claims  it  gave  him.  Seeing  that  he  made  no  im- 
pression, he  grew  more  impatient  and  more  imperious, 
ending  with  a  plain  intimation  that  he  would  discuss  the 
question  no  further. 

"You'll  make  me  the  murderess  of  my  child,"  she  said. 

The  gross  irrational  exaggeration  drove  him  to  worse 
bitterness. 

"I've  no  intention  of  running  even  the  smallest  risk  of 
being  party  to  the  murder  of  my  wife,"  he  retorted. 

Lying  among  her  pillows,  very  pale  and  weary,  she  pro- 
nounced the  accusation  which  had  so  long  brooded  in  her 
mind. 

"It's  not  because  you  love  me  so  much;  you  do  love  me 
in  a  way:  I  please  you,  you're  proud  of  me,  you  like  me  to 
be  there,  you  like  to  make  love  to  me,  you  like  taking  all  I 
have  to  give  you,  and  God  knows  I  liked  to  give  it — but 
you  haven't  given  the  same  thing  back  to  me,  Grantley.     I 


NOT  PEACE,  BUT  A  SWORD  73 

don't  know  whether  you've  got  it  to  give  to  anybody,  but 
at  any  rate  you  haven't  given  it  to  me.  I  haven't  become 
part  of  you,  as  I  was  ready  to  become — as  I've  already 
become  of  my  little  unborn  child.  Your  life  wouldn't  be 
made  really  different  if  I  went  away.  In  the  end  you've 
been  apart  from  me.  I  thought  the  coming  of  the  child 
must  make  all  that  different;  but  it  hasn't.  You've  been 
about  the  child  just  as  you've  been  about  me." 

"Oh,  where  on  earth  do  you  get  such  notions?"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"Just  the  same  as  about  me.  You  wanted  me,  and  you 
wanted  a  child  too.  But  you  wanted  both  with — well, 
with  the  least  disturbance  of  your  old  self  and  your  old 
thoughts:  with  the  least  trouble — it  almost  comes  to  that 
really.  I  don't  know  how  to  put  it,  except  like  that.  You 
enjoyed  the  pleasant  parts  very  much,  but  you  take  as  little 
as  you  can  of  the  troublesome  ones.  I  suppose  a  lot  of 
people  are — are  like  that.  Only  it's  a — a  little  unfortu- 
nate that  you  should  have  happened  on  me,  because  I — I 
can't  understand  being  like  that.  To  me  it  seems  some- 
how rather  cruel.  So,  knowing  you're  like  that,  I  can't  be- 
lieve you  when  you  tell  me  that  you  think  of  nothing  but 
your  love  for  me.  I  daresay  you  think  it's  true — I  know 
you  wouldn't  say  it  if  you  didn't  think  it  true;  and  in  a  way 
it's  true.  But  the  real,  real  truth  is — "  She  paused,  and 
for  the  first  time  turned  her  eyes  on  him.  "The  real  truth 
is  not  that  you  love  me  too  much  to  do  what  I  ask." 

"What  else  can  it  be?"  he  cried  desperately,  utterly  puz- 
zled and  upset  by  her  accusation. 

"What  else  can  it  be?  Ah,  yes,  what  else?"  Her  voice 
grew  rather  more  vehement.  "I  can  answer  that.  What 
have  I  been  doing  these  five  months  but  learning  the  an- 
swer to  that?  I'll  tell  you.  It's  not  that  you  love  me  so 
much,  it's  that  you  don't  care  about  the  child." 


74  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

The  words  brought  a  suspicion  into  his  mind. 

"That  old  fool  Mrs.  Mumple  has  been  talking  to  you? 
She's  been  repeating  something  I  said?  Well,  I  expressed 
it  carelessly,  awkwardly,  but " 

"What  does  it  matter  what  Mumples  has  repeated?  I 
knew  it  all  before." 

"Meddlesome  old  idiot!"  he  grumbled  fiercely. 

To  him  there  was  no  reason  in  it  all.  The  accusation 
angered  him  fiercely  and  amazed  him  even  more;  he  saw 
no  shadow  of  justice  in  it.  He  put  it  all  down  to  Sibylla's 
exaggerated  way  of  talking  and  thinking.  He  was  con- 
scious of  no  shortcomings;  the  accusation  infuriated  the 
more  for  its  entire  failure  to  convince.  "When  two  wom- 
en put  their  heads  together  and  begin  to  talk  nonsense, 
there's  no  end  to  it;  bring  a  baby,  born  or  unborn,  into  the 
case,  and  the  last  chance  of  any  limit  to  the  nonsense  is 
gone."  He  did  not  tell  her  that  (though  it  expressed  what 
he  felt)  in  a  general  form;  he  fell  back  on  the  circum- 
stances of  the  minute. 

"My  dear  Sibylla,  you're  not  fit  to  discuss  things  ration- 
ally at  present.  We'll  say  no  more  now;  we  shall  only  be 
still  more  unjust  to  one  another  if  we  do.  Only  I  must  be 
obeyed." 

"Yes,  you  shall  be  obeyed,"  she  said.  "But  since  it's 
like  that,  I  think  that,  whatever  happens  now,  I — I  won't 
have  any  more  children,  Grantley." 

"What?" 

He  was  startled  out  of  the  cold  composure  which  he  had 
achieved  in  his  previous  speech. 

She  repeated  her  words  in  a  low  tired  voice,  but  firmly 
and  coolly. 

"I  think  I  won't  have  any  more  children,  you  know." 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?" 

"Oh,  surely,  yes!"  she  answered,  with  a  faint  smile. 


NOT  PEACE,  BUT  A  SWORD  75 

Grantley  walked  up  and  down  the  room  twice,  and  then 
came  and  stood  by  her  bed,  fixing  his  eyes  on  her  face  in  a 
long  sombre  contemplation.  The  faint  smile  persisted  on 
her  lips  as  she  looked  up  at  him.  But  he  turned  away 
without  speaking,  with  a  weary  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

"I'll  send  the  nurse  to  you,"  he  said  as  he  went  toward 
the  door. 

"Send  Mumples,  please,  Grantley." 

Mrs.  Mumple  had  done  all  the  harm  she  could. 

"All  right,"  he  replied.     "Try  to  sleep.    Good-night." 

He  shut  the  door  behind  him  before  her  answer  came. 

On  the  stairs  he  met  Mrs.  Mumple.  The  fat  woman 
shrank  out  of  his  path,  but  he  bade  her  good-night  not  un- 
kindly, although  absently;  she  needed  no  bidding  to  send 
her  to  Sibylla's  room.  He  found  Jeremy  still  in  the  study, 
still  wide-awake. 

"Oh,  go  home  to  bed,  old  fellow!"  he  exclaimed  irrita- 
bly, but  affectionately  too.  "What  good  can  you  do  sitting 
up  here  all  night?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  go — it's  half-past  two. 
I'll  go  out  by  the  garden."  He  opened  the  window  which 
led  on  to  the  lawn.  The  fresh  night  air  came  in.  "That's 
good!"  sniffed  Jeremy. 

Grantley  stepped  into  the  garden  with  him,  and  lit  a  cig- 
arette. 

"But  is  it  all  right,  Grantley?  Is  Sibylla  reasonable 
now?" 

"All  right?  Reasonable?"  Grantley's  innermost 
thoughts  had  been  far  away. 

"I  mean,  will  she  agree  to  what  you  wish — what  we 
wish?" 

"Yes,  it's  all  right.     She's  reasonable  now." 

His  face  was  still  just  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  which 
stood  on  a  table  in  the  window.    Jeremy  saw  the  paleness 


76  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

of  his  cheeks  and  the  hard  set  of  his  eyes.    There  was  no 

sign  of  relief  in  him  or  of  anxiety  assuaged. 

4 'Well,  thank  heaven  for  that  much  anyhow  I"  Jeremy 
sighed. 

"Yes,  for  that  much  anyhow,"  Grantley  agreed,  press- 
ing his  arm  in  a  friendly  way.  "And  now,  old  boy,  good- 
night." 

Jeremy  left  him  there  in  the  garden  smoking  his  cigar- 
ette, standing  motionless.  His  face  was  in  the  dark  now, 
but  Jeremy  knew  the  same  look  was  in  his  eyes  still.  It 
was  hard  for  the  young  man,  even  with  the  new  impulses 
and  the  new  sympathies  that  were  alive  and  astir  within 
him,  to  follow,  or  even  to  conjecture,  what  had  been  hap- 
pening that  night.  Yet  as  he  went  down  the  hill  it  was 
plain  even  to  him,  plain  enough  to  raise  a  sharp  pang  in 
him,  that  somehow  the  little  child,  unborn  or  whether  it 
should  yet  be  born,  had  brought  not  union,  but  estrange- 
ment to  the  house;  not  peace  but  a  sword. 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

A   VINDICATION    OF   CONSCIENCE 

IT  was  a  dull  chilly  afternoon  in  March.  Christine 
Fanshaw  huddled  her  slight  little  figure — she  looked 
as  if  the  cold  would  cut  right  through  her — over  a 
blazing  fire  in  her  boudoir.  She  held  a  screen  between  the 
flames  and  her  face,  and  turned  her  eyes  on  Anna  Selford, 
who  was  paying  her  a  call.  Anna  was  a  plump  dark  girl, 
by  no  means  pretty,  but  with  a  shrewd  look  about  her  and 
an  air  of  self-confidence  rather  too  assured  for  her  years; 
she  was  dressed  in  a  would-be  artistic  fashion,  not  well 
suited  to  her  natural  style. 

"Awfully  sad,  isn't  it?"  she  was  saying.  "But  mamma 
says  Mrs.  Raymore  is  splendid  about  it.  Mr.  Raymore 
was  quite  upset,  and  was  no  good  at  all  at  first.  It  was 
Mrs.  Raymore  who  went  and  got  Charley  away  from  the 
woman,  and  hushed  up  all  the  row  about  the  money — Oh, 
he  had  taken  some  from  the  office:  he  was  in  a  solici- 
tor's office,  you  know — and  arranged  for  him  to  be  sent 
out  to  Buenos  Ayres — did  the  whole  thing  in  fact.  She's 
quite  heart-broken  about  it,  mamma  says,  but  quite  firm 
and  brave  too.  How  awful  to  have  your  son  turn  out  like 
that!  He  was  only  nineteen,  and  Mrs.  Raymore  simply 
worshipped  him." 

"He  used  to  be  a  very  pretty  little  boy.  A  little  boy ! 
And  now!"  Christine  plucked  idly  at  the  fringes  of  her 
hand-screen. 

"And  mamma  says  the  woman  was  thirty,  and  not  very 
good-looking  either!" 

77 


78  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"What  a  lot  you  know,  Anna !  You're  hardly  seven- 
teen, are  you?  And  Suzette  Bligh's  twenty-seven!  But 
she's  a  baby  compared  to  you." 

"Oh,  mamma  always  tells  me  things — or  else  I  hear  her 
and  papa  talking  about  them.  When  I'm  washing  the 
dogs  they  forget  I'm  there,  especially  if  they're  squabbling 
at  all.    And  I  keep  my  ears  open." 

"Yes,  I  think  you  do." 

"But  generally  mamma  tells  me.  She  always  must  talk 
to  somebody,  you  see.  When  I  was  little  she  used  to  tell 
me  things,  and  then  forget  it  and  box  my  ears  for  knowing 
them." 

Anna  spoke  without  rancour;  rather  with  a  sort  of  quiet 
amusement,  as  though  she  had  given  much  study  to  her 
mother's  peculiarities  and  found  permanent  diversion  in 
them. 

"Poor  Kate  Raymore !     So  they're  in  trouble  too  1" 

"Charley  was  awfully  sorry;  and  they  hope  he'll  come 
back  some  day,  if  he  behaves  well  out  there." 

"Poor  Kate  Raymore!  Well,  there's  trouble  every- 
where, isn't  there,  Anna?"  She  shivered  and  drew  yet  a 
little  nearer  the  fire.  "How  are  things  at  home  with 
you?" 

"Just  as  usual;  nothing  ever  happens  with  us." 

"It  might  be  much  worse  than  that." 

"I  suppose  it  might.  It's  only  just  rather  dull;  and  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  endure  it  for  a  long  while.  You 
see,  I'm  not  very  likely  to  get  married,  Mrs.  Fanshaw. 
No  men  ever  come  to  our  house — they  can't  stand  it.  Be- 
sides I'm  not  pretty." 

"Oh,  come  and  meet  men  here;  and  never  mind  not  be- 
ing pretty :  I  could  dress  you  to  look  quite  smart.  That's 
it!  You  should  go  in  for  smartness,  not  prettiness.  I 
really  believe  it  pays  better  nowadays.     Get  Janet — get 


A  VINDICATION  79 

your  mother  to  give  you  an  allowance,  and  we'll  put  our 
heads  together  over  it." 

"That's  awfully  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Fanshaw." 

"Oh,  I  like  dressing  people;  and  I  do  think  girls  ought 
to  have  their  chances.  But  in  those  things  she  makes  you 
wear — oh,  my  dear  Anna  !" 

"Yes,  I  know.     I'll  ask  her.    And " 

Anna  hesitated,  then  rose,  and  came  over  to  Christine. 
Suddenly  she  kissed  her. 

"It's  nothing,  my  dear,"  said  Christine,  amused  but 
annoyed;  she  was  very  ready  to  help  Anna,  but  did  not 
care  in  the  least  for  being  kissed  by  her. 

Anna  sat  down  again,  and  a  long  pause  ensued. 

"And  as  for  not  marrying,"  Christine  resumed,  "it's  six 
of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  other,  I  think.  Oh,  I  should 
have  hated  to  be  an  old  maid;  but  still  one  would  have 
avoided  so  much  worry.  Look  at  these  poor  Raymores  I 
They've  always  got  on  so  well  too,  up  to  now !" 

She  laid  down  her  screen  and  pulled  up  her  dress  to  let 
the  warmth  get  to  her  ankles.  Anna  looked  at  her  dainty 
face  lit  up  by  the  glow. 

"I  wish  I  was  like  you,  Mrs.  Fanshaw !" 

Christine  did  not  refuse  the  compliment;  she  only  de- 
nied the  value  of  the  possession  which  won  it  for  her. 

"Much  good  it's  done  me,  my  dear !"  she  sighed.  "But 
people  who've  not  got  looks  never  will  believe  how  little 
good  they  are.  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  Anna !  I 
believe  in  you,  you  know.  I  can  do  something  with  you. 
Only — "  She  stopped,  frowning  a  little  and  looking 
vaguely  unhappy.  "Well,"  she  resumed,  "if  it  turns  out 
that  I  can't  take  you  under  my  wing,  we  must  get  hold  of 
Sibylla.  She's  always  ready  to  do  things  for  people— and 
they've  got  lots  of  money,  anyhow." 

Anna's  curiosity  was  turned  in  the  direction  of  Sibylla. 


80  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"What  was  the  truth  about  Mrs.  Imason,  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw?" 

"I  made  sure  you'd  know  that  too!"  smiled  Christine. 
"And  if  you  don't,  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  tell  you." 

"I  know  she — she  had  an  accident." 

"Oh,  well,  everybody  knows.  Yes,  she  had,  and  they 
thought  it  was  worse  than  it  was.  The  country  doctor 
down  at  Milldean  made  a  mistake — took  too  serious  a 
view,  you  know.  And — and  there  was  a  lot  of  bother. 
But  the  London  man  said  it  would  be  all  right;  and  so  it 
turned  out.  The  baby  came  all  right,  and  it's  a  splendid 
boy." 

"It  all  ended  all  right,  then?" 

Christine  looked  a  little  doubtful. 

"The  boy's  all  right,  and  Sibylla's  quite  well,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"But  mamma  said  Mrs.  Raymore  hinted " 

"Well,  Sibylla  wouldn't  believe  the  London  man,  you 
see.  She  thought  that  he — that  he'd  been  persuaded  to  say 
she  needn't  have  the  operation  she  wanted  to  have,  and 
that  they  meant  to —  Well,  really,  Anna,  I  can't  go  into 
details.  It's  quite  medical,  my  dear,  and  I  can't  express 
myself  discreetly.  Anyhow  Sibylla  made  a  grievance  of  it, 
you  know,  and  relations  were  a  little  strained,  I  think." 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  that's  over  now,  since  everything's 
gone  right,  Mrs.  Fanshaw?" 

"It  ought  to  be,"  said  Christine,  shy  of  asserting  the 
positive  fact.  "But  very  often  fusses  about  nothing  do 
just  as  much  harm  as  fusses  about  something  big.  It's  the 
way  one  looks  at  them." 

"Yes,  I  ought  to  know  that,  living  in  our  house,"  re- 
marked Anna  Selford. 

"You  do  give  your  parents  away  so!"  Christine  com- 
plained, with  a  smile  in  which  pity  was  mingled. 


A  VINDICATION  81 

The  pity,  however,  was  not  for  the  betrayed,  but  for 
the  traitor.  Anna's  premature  knowingness  and  the  sug- 
gestion of  hardness  it  carried  with  it  were  the  result  of 
a  reaction  against  the  atmosphere  of  her  home,  against 
the  half-real  gush  and  the  spasmodic  emotionality  of  the 
family  circle.  In  this  revolt  truth  asserted  itself,  but 
sweetness  suffered,  and  freshness  lost  its  bloom.  Christine 
was  sorry  when  that  sort  of  thing  happened  to  young  girls. 
But  there  it  was.  Anna  was  not  the  ingenue,  and  it  was 
no  good  treating  her  as  if  she  were. 

"I'm  really  half  glad  you  don't  live  in  this  house.  I'm 
sure  John  and  I  couldn't  bear  the  scrutiny — not  just  now, 
anyhow."  She  answered  Anna's  questioning  eyes  by  go- 
ing on:  "Oh,  it's  terrible,  my  dear.  We've  no  money — ■ 
now,  really,  don't  repeat  that !  And  John's  full  of  busi- 
ness worries.  It's  positively  so  bad  that  I  have  to  try  to 
be  amiable  about  it!" 

"I'm  so  sorry,  and  I  really  won't  talk  about  it,  Mrs. 
Fanshaw." 

"No,  don't,  my  dear — not  till  we're  in  the  bankruptcy 
court.  Then  everybody'll  know.  And  I  daresay  we  shall 
have  some  money  again;  at  least  bankrupts  seem  to  have 
plenty  generally." 

"Then  why  don't  you?" 

"Anna !  John  would  cut  his  throat  first.  Oh,  I  really 
believe  he  would!  You've  no  idea  what  a  man  like  him 
thinks  of  his  business  and  of  his  firm's  credit.  It's  like — 
well,  it's  like  what  we  women  ought  to  think  (again 
Christine  avoided  asserting  the  actual  fact)  about  our  rep- 
utations, you  know.  So  you  may  imagine  the  state  of 
things.  The  best  pair  is  being  sold  at  Tattersall's  this 
very  day.  That's  why  I'm  indoors — cabs  are  so  cold,  and 
the  other  pair  will  have  to  go  out  at  night." 
Shiveringly  she  nestled  to  the  fire  again. 


82  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"I'm  so  awfully  sorry,  Mrs.  Fanshawl  It'll  all  come 
right,  won't  it?" 

"It  generally  does;  but  I  don't  know.  And  John  says 
I've  always  been  so  extravagant — and  I  suppose  I  have. 
Well,  I  thought  it  was  just  that  John  was  stingy.  He  had 
a  splendid  business,  you  know."  She  paused  and  smiled  at 
Anna.  "So  now  you  know  all  of  everybody's  troubles," 
she  ended. 

Christine  was  not  in  the  habit  of  giving  praise  beyond 
measure  or  without  reservation  either  to  herself  or  to  other 
people,  and  she  had  done  no  more  than  justice  to  her  pres- 
ent effort  to  be  amiable.  Money  was  the  old  cause  of 
quarrel  between  her  husband  and  herself;  the  alternation 
of  fat  and  lean  years  had  kept  it  always  alive  and  inter- 
mittently active.  But  hitherto,  while  the  fat  seasons  had 
meant  affluence,  the  lean  had  never  fallen  short  of  plenty 
or  of  solvency.  It  had  been  a  question  of  more  or  less  lav- 
ish expenditure;  that  was  all.  Christine  was  afraid  there 
was  more  now.  Her  husband  was  worried  as  he  had  never 
been  before;  he  had  dropped  hints  of  speculations  gone 
wrong  and  of  heavy  commitments;  and  Christine,  a  con- 
stant glancer  at  City  articles  and  an  occasional  dabbler  in 
stocks,  had  read  that  there  was  a  crisis  in  the  market  in 
which  he  mainly  dealt.  Things  were  black;  she  knew  it  al- 
most as  well  as  he.  Both  showed  courage,  and  the  serious- 
ness of  the  matter  forbade  mere  bickering.  Nor  was  either 
invulnerable  enough  to  open  the  battle.  Her  extravagance 
exposed  her  to  attack;  he  was  conscious  of  hazardous  spec- 
ulations which  had  wantonly  undermined  the  standing,  and 
now  threatened  the  credit,  of  a  firm  once  strong  and  of  ex- 
cellent repute.  Each  needed  at  once  to  give  and  to  receive 
charity.  Thus  from  the  impending  trouble  they  had  be- 
come better  friends,  and  their  underlying  comradeship  had 
more  openly  asserted  itself.    This  amount  of  good  there 


A  VINDICATION  83 

was  in  it,  Christine  thought  to  herself;  and  John,  in  his 
blunt  fashion,  had  actually  said  as  much  to  her. 

"We're  in  the  same  boat,  and  we  must  both  pull  at  our 
oars,  old  girl,"  he  said,  and  Christine  was  glad  he  should 
say  it,  although  she  hated  being  called  "old  girl."  John 
had  a  tendency  toward  plebeian  endearments,  she  thought. 

So  the  best  pair  went  to  Tattersall's,  and  some  of  the 
diamonds  to  a  corresponding  establishment  in  the  jewellery 
line ;  and  various  other  things  were  done  or  attempted  with 
the  view  of  letting  free  a  few  thousand  pounds  and  of  di- 
minishing expenditure  in  the  future.  But  John  Fanshaw's 
brow  grew  no  clearer.  About  these  sacrifices  there  hung 
the  air  of  doing  what  was  right  and  proper — what,  given 
the  worst  happening,  would  commend  itself  to  the  feelings 
of  the  creditors  and  the  Official  Receiver — rather  than  of 
achieving  anything  of  real  service.  Christine  guessed  that 
the  speculations  must  have  been  on  a  very  large  scale  and 
the  commitments  very  heavy.  Could  it  be  that  ruin — real 
ruin — was  in  front  of  them?  She  could  hardly  realise  that 
— either  its  coming  or  what  life  would  be  after  i't  had  come. 
And  in  her  heart — here  too  she  had  said  no  more  than 
truth — she  did  doubt  whether  John  would  stay  in  the  world 
to  see.  Well,  what  could  she  do  ?  She  had  three  hundred 
a  year  of  her  own,  tied  up  and  (since  they  had  no  children) 
to  go  back  to  her  people  on  her  death.  If  the  ruin  came,  she 
could  find  crusts  for  herself  and  John — if  John  were  there. 
These  were  the  thoughts  which  had  kept  intruding  into 
her  mind  as  she  talked  to  Anna  Selford  and  shivered  now 
and  then  over  the  blazing  fire.  Yet  she  could  face  them 
better  than  John,  thanks  to  a  touch  of  fatalism  in  her  na- 
ture. She  would  think  of  no  violent  step  to  avoid  what 
she  feared.  Hating  it,  she  would  sit  shivering  by  the  fire, 
and  wait  for  it  all  the  same.  She  knew  this  of  herself,  and 
therefore  was  even  more  sorry  for  John  than  on  her  own 


$4  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

account.  This  state  of  mind  made  the  amiability  easier. 
It  also  awoke  her  conscience  from  a  long  sleep  with  regard 
to  the  way  in  which  she  had  treated  John  in  the  past. 
Against  this,  however,  she  struggled  not  only  fiercely,  but 
with  a  conviction  of  justice.  Here  conscience  was  over- 
doing its  part,  and  passing  from  scrupulousness  to  morbid- 
ity. The  thing  in  question,  the  thing  conscience  was  wor- 
rying about,  belonged  to  the  far  past;  it  had  been  finished 
off  and  written  off,  enjoyed  and  deplored,  brooded  over  and 
violently  banished  from  thought,  ever  so  long  ago.  Hard- 
ly anybody  knew  about  it ;  it  was  utterly  over.  None  the 
less,  the  obstinate  irrational  digs  which  conscience — awake 
again — gave  her  about  it  increased  as  John's  face  grew 
gloomier. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  John  Fanshaw  came  to  his  wife's 
room  for  a  cup  of  tea. 

"The  pair  went  for  only  two  hundred  and  forty-five," 
he  said;  "I  gave  four  hundred  for  them  six  months  ago. 
Ah,  well,  a  forced  sale,  you  know!" 

"It  doesn't  make  much  difference,  does  it?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  said,  absently  stirring  his  tea.  "Not  much, 
Christine." 

She  sat  very  quiet  by  the  fire,  watching  him;  her  screen 
was  in  her  hand  again. 

"It's  no  use,  we  must  face  it,"  he  broke  out  suddenly. 
"Everything's  gone  against  me  again  this  week.  I  had 
a  moral  certainty;  but — well,  that  isn't  a  certainty. 
And " 

He  took  a  great  gulp  of  tea. 

A  faint  spot  of  colour  came  on  Christine's  cheek. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked. 

"I've  been  to  see  Grantley  Imason  to-day.  He  behaved 
uncommonly  well.  The  bank  can't  do  anything  more  for 
me,  but  as  a  private  friend -" 


A  VINDICATION  85 

"Had  you  to  ask  him  for  money,  John?" 

"Well,  friends  often  lend  one  another  money,  don't  they? 
I  don't  see  anything  awful  in  that.  I  daren't  go  to  the 
money-lenders — I'm  afraid  they'd  sell  the  secret." 

"I  daresay  there's  nothing  wrong  in  it.  I  don't  know 
about  such  things.    Go  on." 

"He  met  me  very  straight;  and  I  met  him  straight  too. 
I  told  him  the  whole  position.  I  said,  'The  business  is  a 
good  one,  but  I've  got  into  a  hole.  Once  I  get  out  of  that, 
the  business  is  there.  On  steady  lines  (I  wish  to  Heaven 
I'd  kept  on  them!)  it's  worth  from  eight  to  ten  thousand 
a  year.  I'll  pay  you  back  three  thousand  a  year,  and  five 
per  cent,  on  all  capital  still  owing.'  I  think  he  liked  the 
way  I  put  it,  Christine.  He  asked  if  he  could  take  my  word 
for  it,  and  I  said  he  could;  and  he  said  that  on  the  faith 
of  that  he'd  let  me  have  fifteen  thousand.  I  call  that  hand- 
some." 

"Grantley  always  likes  to  do  the  handsome  thing."  She 
looked  at  him  before  she  put  her  question.  "And — and 
is  that  enough?" 

He  was  ashamed,  it  was  easy  to  see  that — ashamed  to 
show  her  how  deep  he  was  in  the  bog,  how  reckless  he  had 
been.  He  finished  his  tea,  and  pottered  about,  cutting  and 
lighting  a  cigar,  before  he  answered. 

"I  suppose  it's  not  enough?"  said  Christine. 

"It's  no  use  unless  I  get  some  more.  I  don't  know  where 
else  to  turn,  and  I  must  raise  thirty  thousand  in  a  fortnight 
— by  next  settling  day — or  it's  all  up.  I  shall  be  hammered, 
Christine." 

"If  we  sold  up  absolutely  everything ?" 

"For  God's  sake,  no !  That  would  ruin  our  credit;  and 
then  it  wouldn't  be  thirty  thousand  we  should  want,  but — 
oh,  I  don't  know!  Perhaps  a  hundred!  We've  sold 
enough  already;  there's  nothing  more  we  can  do  on  the 
quiet." 


86  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  and  stared  gloomily  at  the 
fire.  Christine  rather  wondered  that  he  did  not  turn  to 
abuse  of  himself  for  having  got  into  the  bog,  but  she  sup- 
posed that  the  speculative  temper,  which  acknowledges  only 
bad  luck  and  never  bad  judgment,  saved  him  from  that. 
He  looked  at  her  covertly  once  or  twice ;  she  saw,  but  pre- 
tended not  to,  and  waited  to  hear  what  was  in  his  mind: 
something,  clearly,  was  there. 

"No,  I  don't  know  where  to  turn — and  I  shall  be  ham- 
mered. After  thirty  years !  And  my  father  forty  years 
before  me !  I  never  thought  of  its  coming  to  this."  After 
a  long  pause  he  added:  "I  want  another  fifteen  thousand, 
and  I  don't  know  where  to  turn."  He  smoked  hard  for 
a  minute,  then  flung  his  cigar  peevishly  into  the  fire. 

"I  do  wish  I  could  help  you,  John!"  she  sighed. 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't,  old  lady."  Again  he  hesitated. 
"Unless — "     He  broke  off  again. 

Christine  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  her  nerves  un- 
der control.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was  abruptly,  as 
though  with  a  wrench : 

"I  say,  do  you  ever  see  Caylesham  now?" 

A  very  slight,  almost  imperceptible,  start  ran  over  her. 

"Lord  Caylesham?  Oh,  I  meet  him  about  sometimes. 
He's  at  the  Raymores'  now  and  then — and  at  other  places, 
of  course." 

"He  never  comes  here  now,  does  he?" 

"Very  seldom:  to  a  party  now  and  then."  She  an- 
swered without  apparent  embarrassment,  but  her  eyes  were 
very  sharply  on  the  watch;  she  was  on  guard  against  the 
next  blow. 

"He  was  a  good  chap,  and  very  fond  of  us.  Lord,  we 
had  some  fine  old  times  with  Caylesham!"  He  rose  now 
and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire.  "He  must  be  devilish 
rich  since  he  came  into  the  property." 


A  VINDICATION  87 

He  looked  at  her  inquiringly.     She  said  nothing. 

"He's  a  good  chap  too.  I  don't  think  he'd  let  a  friend 
go  to  the  wall.  What  do  you  think?  He  was  as  much 
your  friend  as  mine,  you  know." 

"You'd  ask  him,  John?    Oh,  I  shouldn't  do  that!" 

"Why  not?     He's  got  plenty." 

"We  see  so  little  of  him  now;  and  it's  such  a  lot  to 
ask." 

"It's  not  such  a  lot  to  him;  and  it's  only  accidental  that 
we  haven't  met  lately."  He  looked  at  her  angrily.  "You 
don't  realise  what  the  devil  of  a  mess  we're  in.  We've  no 
choice,  I  tell  you,  but  to  get  it  from  somewhere ;  and  there's 
nobody  else  I  know  of  to  ask.  Why,  he'll  get  his  money 
back  again,  Christine." 

Her  screen  was  before  her  face  now,  so  that  he  saw  no 
more  than  her  brow. 

"I  want  you  to  go  and  ask  him,  Christine.  That's  what 
you  can  do  for  me.  You  said  you  wanted  to  help.  Well, 
go  and  ask  Caylesham  to  lend  me  the  money." 

"I  can't  do  that,  John." 

"Why  not?    Why  can't  you?" 

"I  should  hate  your  asking  him,  and  I  simply  couldn't 
ask  him  myself." 

"Why  do  you  hate  my  asking  him?  You  said  nothing 
against  my  asking  Grantley,  and  we  haven't  known  him 
any  better." 

She  had  no  answer  to  that  ready.  The  thrust  was  awk- 
ward. 

"Anyhow  I  couldn't  ask  him — I  really  couldn't.  Don't 
press  me  to  do  that.  If  you  must  ask  him,  do  it  yourself. 
Why  should  I  doit?" 

"Why,  because  he's  more  likely  to  give  it  to  you." 

"But  that's — that's  so  unfair.  To  send  a  woman  because 
it's  harder  to  refuse  her!     Oh,  that  isn't  fair,  John!" 


88  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Fair !  Good  heavens,  can't  you  understand  how  we're 
situated?  It's  ruin  if  we  don't  get  it — and  I'm  damned 
if  I'll  live  to  see  it!     There!" 

She  saw  his  passion ;  his  words  confirmed  her  secret  fear. 
She  saw,  too,  how  in  the  stress  of  danger  he  would  not 
stand  on  scruples  or  be  baulked  by  questions  of  taste  or  of 
social  propriety.  He  saw  possible  salvation,  and  jumped 
at  any  path  to  it;  and  the  responsibility  of  refusing  to  tread 
the  path  he  put  on  her,  with  all  it  might  mean. 

"If  I  went  and  he  said  'No,'  you  couldn't  go  afterwards. 
But  you  can  go  first,  and  you  must  go." 

Christine  raised  her  head  and  shook  it. 

"I  can't  go,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?  You're  infernally  odd  about  it !  Why  can't 
you  go?    Is  it  anything  about  Caylesham  in  particular?" 

"No,  no,  nothing — nothing  like  that;  but  I — I  hate 
to  go." 

"You  must  do  it  for  me.  I  don't  understand  why  you 
hate  it  so  much  as  all  that." 

He  was  regarding  her  with  an  air  at  once  angry  and 
inquisitive.  She  dared  hide  her  face  no  longer.  She  had 
to  look  at  him  calmly  and  steadily — with  distress,  perhaps, 
but  at  all  costs  without  fear  or  confusion. 

"My  good  name  depends  on  it,  and  all  we  have  in  the 
world;  and — by  God,  yes! — my  life  too,  if  you  like!"  he 
exclaimed  in  rising  passion.  "You  shall  go!  No,  no!  I 
don't  mean  that — I  don't  want  to  be  rough!  But,  for 
heaven's  sake — if  you've  ever  cared  about  me,  old  woman 
— for  heaven's  sake,  go !" 

She  hesitated  still,  and  at  this  his  passing  touch  of  ten- 
derness vanished;  but  it  had  moved  her,  and  it  worked 
with  the  fear  that  was  on  her. 

"If  you've  a  special  reason,  tell  it  me,"  he  urged  impa- 
tiently: "a  special  reason  against  asking  Caylesham;  some- 
body we  must  ask." 


A  VINDICATION  89 

"I  have  no  special  reason  against  asking  Lord  Cayles- 
ham,"  she  answered  steadily. 

"Then  you'll  go?" 

A  last  struggle  kept  her  silent  a  moment.  Then  she  an- 
swered in  a  low  voice : 

"Yes,  I'll  go." 

"There's  a  brave  little  woman!"  he  cried  delightedly, 
and  bent  down  as  if  he  would  kiss  her;  but  she  had  slipped 
her  screen  up  nearly  to  her  eyes  again,  and  seemed  so  un- 
conscious of  his  purpose  that  he  abandoned  it.  His  spirits 
rose  in  a  moment,  as  his  sanguine  mind,  catching  hold  of 
the  bare  chance,  twisted  it  into  a  good  chance — almost  into 
a  certainty. 

"Gad,  I  believe  he'll  give  it  you!  You'll  put  it  in  such 
a  fetching  way.  Oh,  his  money's  safe  enough,  of  course! 
But — well,  you'll  make  him  see  that  better  than  I  could. 
He  liked  you  so  much,  you  know.  By  Jove,  I'm  sure  he'll 
do  it  for  you,  you  know!" 

Christine's  pain-stricken  eyes  alone  were  visible  above 
the  screen.  Underneath  it  her  lips  were  bent  in  an  invol- 
untary smile  of  most  mocking  bitterness.  Conscience  had 
not  been  at  her  without  a  purpose.  At  her  husband's  bid- 
ding she  must  go  and  ask  Caylesham  for  money.  She 
bowed  to  conscience  now. 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

IDEALS    AND    ASPIRATIONS 

A  SUDDEN  rigidity  seemed  to  affect  Mrs.  Ray- 
more  from  the  waist  upwards.  Her  back  grew 
stiff,  her  head  rose  very  straight  from  the  neck, 
her  eyes  looked  fixedly  in  front  of  her,  her  lips  were  tight 
shut.  These  symptoms  were  due  to  the  fact  that  she  saw 
Tom  Courtland  approaching,  in  company  with  a  woman 
who  was  certainly  not  Lady  Harriet.  Thanks  to  the  gossip 
about  among  Tom's  friends,  Kate  Raymore  guessed  who 
she  was;  the  woman's  gorgeous  attire,  her  flamboyant  man- 
ner, the  air  of  good-natured  rowdyism  which  she  carried 
with  her,  all  confirmed  the  guess.  Yet  Tom  was  walking 
with  her  in  the  broad  light  of  day — not  in  the  street,  it  is 
true;  it  was  in  a  rather  retired  part  of  the  Park.  But  peo- 
ple came  there  and  drove  by  there,  and  to  many  his  com- 
panion was  known  by  sight  and  by  repute.  His  conduct 
betrayed  increasing  recklessness.  There  was  nothing  to 
do  but  to  pass  him  by  without  notice;  he  himself  would 
wish  nothing  else  and  would  expect  nothing  else.  Still 
Mrs.  Raymore  was  sorry  to  have  to  do  it;  for  Tom  had 
been  kind  and  helpful  in  obtaining  that  position  in  a  rail- 
way company's  office  in  Buenos  Ayres  which  had  covered 
the  disastrous  retreat  of  her  well-beloved  son. 

This  lamentable  affair  had  been  hushed  up  so  far  as  the 
outer  world  was  concerned ;  but  their  friends  knew  the  truth. 
In  the  first  terrible  days,  when  there  had  been  imminent 
risk  of  a  criminal  prosecution,  Raymore  had  rather  lost 
his  head  and  had  gone  round  to  Grantley  Imason,  to  Tom 
'Courtland,  to  John  Fanshaw,  making  lament  and  implor- 
ing advice.     So  they  all  knew — they  and  their  wives ;  and 

90 


IDEALS  AND  ASPIRATIONS  91 

the  poor  boy's  sister  Eva  had  been  told,  perforce.  There 
the  public  shame  stopped,  but  the  private  shame  was  very 
bitter  to  the  Raymores.  Raymore  was  driven  to  accuse 
himself  of  all  kinds  of  faults  in  his  bringing  up  of  the  boy 
— of  having  been  too  indulgent  here  or  too  strict  there — 
most  of  all,  of  having  been  so  engrossed  in  business  as  not 
to  see  enough  of  the  boy  or  to  keep  proper  watch  on  his 
disposition  and  companions,  and  the  way  he  spent  his  time. 
Kate  Raymore,  who  even  now  could  not  get  it  out  of  her 
head  that  her  boy  was  a  paragon,  was  possessed  by  a  more 
primitive  feeling.  To  her  the  thing  was  a  nemesis.  She 
had  been  too  content,  too  sure  all  was  well  with  their  house- 
hold, too  uplifted  in  her  kindly  but  rather  scornful  judg- 
ment of  the  difficulties  and  follies  which  the  Courtland 
family,  and  the  Fanshaw  family,  and  other  families  of 
her  acquaintance  had  brought  before  her  eyes.  She  had 
fallen  too  much  into  the  pose  of  the  judge,  the  critic, 
and  the  censor.  Well,  she  had  trouble  enough  of  her  own 
now;  and  that,  to  say  nothing  of  Tom's  kindness  about 
Buenos  Ayres,  made  her  sorrier  to  have  to  cut  him  in  the 
Park. 

She  was  a  religious  woman,  of  a  type  now  often  consid- 
ered old-fashioned.  The  nemesis  which  she  instinctively 
acknowledged  she  accepted  as  a  just  and  direct  chastise- 
ment of  Heaven.  Her  husband  was  impatient  with  this 
view,  but  he  had  more  sympathy  with  the  merciful  allevia- 
tion of  her  sorrow  which  Heaven  had  sent.  In  the  hour 
of  affliction  her  son's  heart,  which  had  wandered  from  her 
in  the  waywardness  of  his  heady  youth,  had  come  back 
to  her.  They  could  share  holy  memories  of  hours  spent 
before  Charley  went,  after  forgiveness  had  been  offered 
and  received,  and  they  were  all  drawn  very  close  together. 
With  these  memories  in  their  hearts  they  could  endure,  and 
with  a  confident  hope  look  forward  to  their  son's  future. 


92  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Meanwhile  they  who  remained  were  nearer  in  heart  too. 
Eva,  who  had  been  inclined  to  flightiness,  was  frightened 
and  sobered  into  a  greater  tenderness  and  a  more  willing 
obedience;  and  Edgar  Raymore  himself,  when  once  he 
had  pulled  himself  together,  had  behaved  so  well  and  had 
been  such  a  help  to  his  wife  in  the  trial  that  their  old  re- 
lations of  mellow  friendship  took  on  a  more  intimate  and 
affectionate  character. 

It  was  Sibylla  Imason  whom  Mrs.  Raymore  chose  to 
pour  out  these  feelings  to.  Who  could  better  share  them 
than  the  young  wife  still  in  the  first  pride  and  glory  of  her 
motherhood? 

"Children  bring  you  together  and  keep  you  together, 
whether  in  trouble  or  in  joy.  That's  one  reason  why  every- 
body ought  to  have  children,"  Kate  Raymore  said  with  a 
rather  tremulous  smile.  "If  there  are  none,  there's  such  a 
danger  of  the  whole  thing  getting  old  and  cold,  and — 
and  worn-out,  you  know." 

Sibylla  was  in  wonderful  health  now,  and  at  the  best  of 
her  looks.  Her  manner  too  had  grown  more  composed 
and  less  impulsive,  although  she  kept  her  old  graciousness. 
To  Kate  Raymore  she  seemed  very  fair  and  good  to  gaze 
on.  She  listened  with  a  thoughtful  gravity  and  the  wonted 
hint  of  questioning  or  seeking  in  her  eyes.  There  was  a 
hint  of  pain  in  them  also,  and  of  this  Mrs.  Raymore  pres- 
ently became  aware. 

"That's  how  it  ought  to  be,"  said  Sibylla.  "But — well, 
the  Courtlands  have  children  too." 

The  remark  struck  Kate  Raymore  as  rather  odd,  coming 
from  Sibylla,  and  associated  with  the  hint  of  pain  in  Sibyl- 
la's eyes ;  but  she  was  just  now  engrossed  in  her  own  feel- 
ings. She  went  on  describing  family  life  on  the  true  lines 
— she  wouldn't  have  it  that  they  were  unreal  or  merely 
ideal — and  was  quite  content  that  Sibylla  should  listen. 


IDEALS  AND  ASPIRATIONS  93 

Sibylla  did  listen;  it  was  easier  to  do  that  than  to  talk 
on  the  subject  herself.  But  she  listened  without  much  in- 
terest. It  was  old  ground  to  her,  broken  by  imagination, 
if  not  by  experience — very  familiar  to  her  thoughts  some 
months  before.  She  had  lived  with — nay,  seemed  to  live 
on — such  ideas  in  the  early  days  of  her  marriage,  before 
the  accident  and  all  that  had  come  from  it.  The  things 
Kate  Raymore  said  were  no  doubt  true  sometimes ;  but  they 
were  not  true  for  her.  That  was  the  upshot  of  the  matter. 
They  were  not  true  for  Grantley  Imason's  wife,  nor  for  the 
mother  of  his  child.  Her  reason,  dominated  by  emotion 
and  almost  as  impulsive  as  its  ruler,  had  brought  her  to 
that  conclusion  before  ever  her  child  was  born.  It  dated 
from  the  night  when  she  battled  with  Grantley,  and  she 
had  never  wavered  in  it  since.  She  had  abandoned  hope 
of  the  ideal. 

What  of  that?  Do  not  most  people  have  to  abandon 
the  ideal?  Many  of  them  do  it  readily  enough,  even  with 
a  secret  sense  of  relief,  since  there  is  always  something  of 
a  strain  about  an  ideal :  it  is,  in  famous  phrase,  so  categori- 
cally imperative.  But  Sibylla  was  a  stickler  for  ideals; 
they  were  what  she  dealt  in,  what  she  proposed  to  barter 
and  to  bargain  with ;  she  had  no  place  in  her  stock  for  hum- 
bler wares.  Ideals  or  nothing!  And,  in  the  ideal,  wife- 
hood and  motherhood  were  so  indissolubly  united  that  the 
failure  of  one  soured  her  joy  in  the  other.  She  loved  the 
little  child,  but  loved  him  with  bitterness.  He  had  become 
the  symbol  of  her  lost  ideal. 

But  she  did  not  say  this  to  Kate  Raymore,  for  with  the 
loss  of  the  ideal  comes  a  certain  shame  of  it.  We  see  it 
then  as  we  did  not  before,  as  we  know  now  that  others — 
so  many  others — see  it;  and  we  veil  the  broken  image. 
The  heart,  once  its  throne,  becomes  its  hiding-place. 

All  this  was  not  for  Kate  Raymore.     She  must  be  left 


94  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

to  wonder  that  Sibylla  said  so  little  about  the  baby — left 
to  be  amazed  at  an  apparent  coldness  in  the  young  mother 
— left  to  miss  gracious  extravagances  of  maternal  joy  and 
pride.  For  if  Sibylla  could  not  be  open,  neither  would 
she  play  the  hypocrite  by  parading  a  light-hearted  enjoy- 
ment and  exultation  in  the  child.  How  should  she  display 
the  boy  and  her  proud  pleasure  in  him  to  the  world  out- 
side, when  her  pleasure  was  not  shared  at  home,  and  her 
pride  made  her  love  covert  there? 

Christine  Fanshaw,  sharply  guessing,  had  cried  once: 

"But  surely  Grantley's  manner  is  irreproachable  ?" 

Even  now  Sibylla's  humour  rose  at  the  challenge. 

"Yes,  irreproachable.  Of  course  it  would  be.  All 
through,  his  solicitude  for  both  of  us  was — beautiful! 
Even  Mumples  was  shaken!" 

"Shaken?     Why,  I  thought " 

"Shaken  in  her  bad  opinion,  I  mean,  Christine  dear. 
Yes,  if  ever  a  man  did  his  duty,  did  and  said  all  the  proper 
things,  Grantley  did.  And  he  wasn't  the  least  angry  with 
me ;  he  was  only  annoyed  with  Adam  and  Eve,  you  know. 
Of  course  he  was  awfully  busy  just  then :  County  Council 
elections  and  what  not.  But  you'd  never  have  guessed  it. 
He  never  seemed  hurried,  and  he  was  always  very — very 
solicitous." 

"And  now,  Sibylla?" 

"Just  the  same — and  quite  pleased.  Only  I  think  he 
wishes  babies  were  like  kittens — more  animated  and  grow- 
ing up  quicker,  you  know.  We  happen  to  have  a  kitten, 
and  I  think  he's  more  at  his  ease  with  that." 

"Nonsense  !     Men  are  men,  you  know." 

"Most  of  them  seem  to  be,"  admitted  Sibylla. 

"It  would  be  becoming,"  Christine  observed,  "if  you 
recollected  that  you'd  been  in  the  wrono:  all  through.  You 
believed  in  the  wrong  doctor,  you  wanted  the  wrong  thing, 


IDEALS  AND  ASPIRATIONS  95 

you  were  quite  unreasonable.  Hadn't  you  better  remem- 
ber that?" 

"I  do  remember  it.  And  if  you  want  another  admis- 
sion— well,  Grantley  never  reminds  me  of  it  by  a  look  or 
a  word." 

"He's  very  much  of  a  gentleman,  Sibylla." 

"He's  never  the  least  ungentlemanlike,  Christine." 

Christine  enjoyed  a  distinction;  she  laughed  gently. 

"And  you're  a  very  lucky  woman,"  she  went  on. 

"Don't  I  say  so  in  my  prayers?" 

"In  a  very  dangerous  state  of  mind." 

Christine's  eyes  were  set  on  her  friend.  Sibylla  met 
them  full  and  square.  Her  mirth,  real  or  affected,  van- 
ished. She  looked  hard  at  Christine,  and  made  no  answer 
for  a  moment. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"It's  so  much  easier  to  despair  of  your  husband  than 
of  anybody  else  in  the  world — except  your  wife." 

"I  try  to  consider  him  a  type." 

"Well,  don't  find  an  exception.  Oh,  I'm  not  talking  at 
random.  I  know !"  She  paused  a  moment  and  then  went 
on:  "There's  a  question  I  should  like  to  ask  you,  but  I 
suppose  it's  a  question  nobody  ought  to  ask;  it's  too  imper- 
tinent even  for  me,  I'm  afraid." 

Sibylla  looked  at  her,  and  a  faint  touch  of  colour  rose 
on  her  cheeks.  There  was  a  little  defiance  about  her  man- 
ner, as  though  she  were  accused,  and  stood  on  her  defence 
rather  uneasily.  She  understood  what  question  it  was 
that  even  Christine  could  not  ask. 

"Grantley  and  I  are — perfectly  good  friends,"  she  said. 

Christine's  next  question  was  drawled  out  in  a  lazy 
murmur,  and  was  never  completed,  apparently  from  mere 
indolence. 


96  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"It's  you  who ?" 

Sibylla  nodded  in  an  abrupt  decisive  fashion. 

"And  who  do  you  see  most  of?"  asked  Christine. 

The  colour  deepened  a  little  on  Sibylla's  face. 

"That  doesn't  follow.     Don't  talk  like  that." 

"I've  gone  a  great  deal  too  far?" 

"I  really  think  you  have,  rather,  and  without  an  atom 
of  reason." 

"Oh,  entirely!  I  apologise.  That  sort  of  thing  hap- 
pens to  be — to  be  in  my  thoughts." 

Sibylla,  in  some  anger,  had  risen  to  go.  The  last  words 
arrested  her  movement,  and  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  looking  down  on  Christine's  little  figure,  nestling  in 
a  big  armchair. 

"Your  thoughts  ?    That  sort  of  thing  in  your  thoughts  ?" 

"Oh,  entirely  in  retrospect,  my  dear;  and  it  generally 
comes  of  not  being  appreciated,  and  of  wanting  an  outlet 
for — for — well,  for  something  or  other,  you  know." 

"Are  you  going  to  speak  plainly,  Christine?" 

"Not  for  worlds,  my  dear !  Are  you  going  to  drop  my 
acquaintance?" 

"Why  is  it  in  your  thoughts?  You  say  it's — it's  all  in 
the  past?" 

"Really  I'm  beginning  to  doubt  if  there's  such  a  thing 
as  the  past;  and  if  there  isn't,  it  makes  everything  so  much 
worse!  I  thought  it  was  all  done  with — done  with  long 
ago;  and  now  it  isn't.  It's  just  all — all  over  my  life,  as  it 
used  to  be.  And  I — I'm  afraid  again.  And  I'm  lying 
again.  It  means  so  many  lies,  you  know."  She  looked  up 
at  Sibylla  with  a  plaintiveness  coloured  by  malice.  "So, 
if  I've  been  impertinent,  just  put  it  down  to  what  I  happen 
to  be  thinking  about." 

Sibylla  stood  very  quiet,  saying  nothing.  Christine  went 
on  after  a  minute: 


IDEALS  AND  ASPIRATIONS  97 

"Can't  you  manage  to  be  wrapped  up  in  the  baby?" 

"No,  I  can't."  The  answer  was  hard  and  unhesitating. 
"You've  told  me  something  people  don't  generally  tell. 
I'll  tell  you  something  that  I  didn't  think  I  should  ever  tell. 
I  love  my  baby — and  sometimes  I  hate  to  have  to  see  him." 
Her  eyes  were  on  Christine's  face,  and  there  was  distress 
— hopeless  distress — in  them.  "Now  I  should  think  you'd 
drop  my  acquaintance,"  she  ended  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  I've  never  had  a  baby — I'm  not  shocked  to  death. 
But— but  why,  Sibylla?" 

"Surely  you  can  guess  why!  It's  horrible,  but  it's  not 
unintelligible,  surely?" 

"No,  I  suppose  it's  not,"  Christine  sighed. 

Christine's  legs  had  been  curled  up  on  her  chair;  she  let 
them  down  to  the  ground  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"That's  all  from  both  of  us  for  to-day?"  she  asked, 
with  a  wry  smile. 

"All  for  to-day,  I  think,"  answered  Sibylla,  buttoning 
her  glove. 

"I  meant  to  be — friendly." 

"You  have  been.  I  never  guessed  anything — anything 
of  what  you've  said — about  you." 

"Nobody  hinted  it?  Not  even  Harriet  Courtland? 
She  knew." 

"I  never  see  her.     How  did  she  know?" 

"She  was  my  great  friend  then.  Rather  funny,  isn't  it? 
I'm  told  Tom's  getting  quite  regardless  of  appearances." 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  to  talk  about  that!" 

"No?  Well,  you  can  think  of  it  now  and  then,  can't 
you?  It's  rather  wholesome  to  reflect  how  other  people 
look  when  they're  doing  the  things  that  you  want " 

"Christine!     Good-bye!" 

"Oh,  good-bye,  my  dear!  And  take  care  of  yourself. 
Oh,  I  only  mean  the  wind's  cold." 


98  DOUBLE    HARNESS 

But  her  look  denied  the  harmless  meaning  she  claimed 
for  her  parting  words. 

Grantley's  attitude  admits  of  simpler  definition  than  his 
wife's.  He  attributed  to  her  an  abnormally  prolonged  and 
obstinate  fit  of  sulks.  People  who  have  been  in  the  wrong 
are  generally  sulky ;  that  went  a  long  way  toward  account- 
ing for  it.  Add  thereto  Sibylla's  extreme  expectations  of  a 
world  and  of  an  institution  both  of  which  deal  mostly  with 
compromises  and  arrangements  short  of  the  ideal,  and  the 
case  seemed  to  him  clear  enough  and  not  altogether  unnat- 
ural, however  vexatious  it  might  be.  He  flew  to  no  tragical 
or  final  conclusion.  He  did  not  despair;  but  neither  did  he 
struggle.  He  made  no  advances ;  his  pride  was  too  wound- 
ed and  his  reason  too  affronted  for  that.  On  the  other 
hand  he  offered  no  provocation.  The  irreproachability  of 
his  manner  continued;  the  inaccessibility  of  his  feelings  in- 
creased. He  devoted  his  mind  to  his  work,  public  and 
commercial;  and  he  waited  for  Sibylla  to  come  to  her 
senses.  Given  his  theory  of  the  case,  he  deserved  credit 
for  much  courtesy,  much  patience,  and  entire  consistency 
of  purpose.  And  he,  unlike  Sibylla,  neither  talked  to  inti- 
mate friends  not  invited  questions  from  them.  Both  pride 
and  wisdom  forbade.  Finally,  while  he  acknowledged 
great  discomfort  (including  a  disagreeable  element  of  the 
ludicrous),  the  idea  of  danger  never  crossed  his  mind;  he 
would  have  laughed  at  Christine  Fanshaw's  warning,  had 
it  been  addressed  to  him. 

Whatever  Sibylla's  faults,  levity  was  not  among  them, 
and  danger  in  Christine's  sense — danger  of  a  break-up  of 
the  household,  as  distinguished  from  a  continuance  of  it, 
however  unsatisfactory  that  continuance  might  be — there 
would  probably  have  been  none,  had  not  Walter  Blake, 
after  a  lively  but  not  very  profitable  youth,  wanted  to  re- 
form his  life.    He  might  have  wanted  to  be  wicked  with- 


IDEALS  AND  ASPIRATIONS  99 

out  creating  any  peril  at  all  for  the  Imason  household.  But 
he  wanted  to  be  good,  and  he  wanted  Sibylla  to  make  him 
good.  This  idea  had  occurred  to  him  quite  early  in  their 
acquaintance.  He  too  had  a  faculty — even  a  facility — 
for  idealising.  He  idealised  Sibylla  into  the  image  of 
goodness  and  purity,  which  would  turn  him  from  sin  and 
folly  by  making  virtue  and  wisdom  not  better  (which  of 
course  they  were  already),  but  more  attractive  and  more 
pleasurable.  If  they  were  made  more  attractive  and  more 
pleasurable,  he  would  be  eager  to  embrace  them.  Besides 
he  had  had  a  good  deal  of  the  alternatives,  without  ever 
being  really  content  with  them.  By  this  time  he  was  firmly 
convinced  that  he  must  be  good,  and  that  Sibylla,  and  Si- 
bylla alone,  could  make  him  good.  He  did  not  at 
all  think  out  what  the  process  was  to  be,  nor  whither  it 
might  lead.  He  had  never  planned  much,  nor  looked 
where  things  led  to.  Until  they  led  to  something  alarm- 
ing, he  did  not  consider  the  question  much.  How  she  was 
to  reform  him  he  seemed  to  leave  to  Sibylla,  but  his  de- 
mand that  she  should  do  it  grew  more  and  more  explicit. 

This  was  to  attack  Sibylla  on  her  weak  spot,  to  aim  an 
arrow  true  at  the  joint  in  her  harness.  For  (one  is  tempt- 
ed to  say,  unfortunately)  she  knew  the  only  way  in  which 
people  could  be  reformed  and  made  good,  and  caused  to 
feel  that  wisdom  and  virtue  were  not  only  better  (which  of 
course  they  felt  already),  but  also  more  pleasurable  than 
folly  and  sin.  (People  who  want  to  be  reformed  are 
sometimes,  it  must  be  admitted,  a  little  exacting.)  That 
could  be  done  only  by  sympathy  and  understanding.  And 
if  they  are  thorough,  sympathy  and  understanding  com- 
pose, or  depend  on,  or  issue  in  love — in  the  best  kind  of 
love,  where  friend  gives  himself  unreservedly  to  friend, 
entering  into  every  feeling,  and  being  privy  to  every 
thought.     This  close  and  intimate  connection  must  be  es- 


ioo  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

tablished  before  one  mind  can,  lever-like,  raise  another, 
and  the  process  of  reformation  be  begun.  So  much  is  old 
ground,  often  trodden  and  with  no  pretence  of  novelty 
about  it.  But  much  of  the  power  of  a  proposition  may  de- 
pend not  on  its  soundness,  but  on  the  ardour  with  which 
it  is  seized  upon,  and  the  conviction  with  which  it  is  held 
— which  things,  again,  depend  on  the  character  and  tem- 
per of  the  believer.  Sibylla's  character  and  temper  made 
the  proposition  extraordinarily  convincing.  Her  circum- 
stances, as  she  conceived  them,  were  equally  provocative  in 
the  same  direction.  What  was  wrong  with  her?  In  the 
end  that  she  was  not  wanted,  or  not  wanted  enough,  that 
she  had  more  to  give  than  had  been  asked  of  her,  and  had 
no  outlet  (as  Christine  had  put  it)  sufficient  to  relieve  the 
press  of  her  emotions.  It  was  almost  inevitable  that  she 
should  respond  to  Blake's  appeal.  He  was  an  outlet.  He 
was  somebody  who  wanted  her  very  much,  whom  she  could 
help,  with  whom  she  could  expand,  to  whom  she  could 
give  what  she  had  to  give  in  such  abundant  measure. 

Thus  far  the  first  stage.  The  next  was  not  reached. 
There  was  plenty  of  time  yet.  Sibylla  loved  the  child. 
Blake  had  set  up  his  idol,  but  he  had  not  yet  declared  that 
he  was  the  only  devotee  who  knew  how  properly  to  honour 
and  to  worship  it. 

He  sat  watching  Sibylla  as  she  played  with  her  baby- 
boy.  He  took  a  hand  in  the  game  now  and  then,  since,  for 
a  bachelor,  he  was  at  his  ease  with  babies;  but  most  of  the 
time  he  watched.  But  he  watched  sympathetically;  Sibylla 
did  not  fear  to  show  her  love  before  his  eyes.  The  baby 
was  very  young  for  games — for  any  that  a  man  could  play. 
But  Sibylla  knew  some  that  he  liked;  he  gave  evidence  of 
a  strangely  dawning  pleasure  distinct  from  physical  con- 
tentment— of  wonder,  of  amusement,  of  an  appreciation 
of  fun,  of  delight  in  the  mock  assaults  and  the  queer  noises 


IDEALS  AND  ASPIRATIONS  101 

which  his  mother  directed  at  him.  '  Sc'nietinies  hd  made 
nice,  queer,  gurgling  noises  hirriself,  full'  of  Iukut ions 
content,  like  a  cat's  purring,  and  laden  'with  a  surprise,' as 
though  all  this  were  very  new.  She  had  infinite  patience 
in  seeking  these  signs  of  approval;  half  a  dozen  attempts 
would  miscarry  before  she  succeeded  in  tickling  the  infant 
groping  senses.  When  she  hit  the  mark,  she  had  infinite 
delight.  She  would  give  a  cry  of  joy  and  turn  round  to 
Blake  for  approval  and  applause;  it  was  a  very  difficult 
thing,  but  she  had  kept  confidence  in  her  instinct,  and  she 
had  won  the  day  !  Spurred  to  fresh  effort,  she  returned  to 
her  loved  work.  A  gurgle  from  the  little  parted  lips,  a 
movement  of  the  wide-open  little  eyes — eyes  of  that  mar- 
vellous transient  blue — marked  a  new  triumph. 

"Isn't  he  wonderful?"  she  called  to  Blake  over  her 
shoulder. 

"Oh,  yes,  rather!"  he  laughed,  and  added,  after  a  short 
moment:  "And  so  are  you." 

Sibylla  was  not  looking  for  compliments.  She  laughed 
gaily  and  went  back  to  her  work. 

"But  can't  he  talk,  Mrs.  Imason?" 

"How  silly  you  are !  But  he's  just  wonderful  for  his 
age  as  he  is." 

"Oh,  they  all  are!" 

He  was  so  obviously  feigning  scorn  that  Sibylla  only 
shook  her  head  at  him  in  merry  glee. 

Was  not  this  the  real,  the  great  thing?  Blake's  mind, 
disengaging  from  the  past  memories  of  what  had  once 
been  its  delights,  and  turning  now  in  distaste  from  them, 
declared  that  it  was.  Nature  had  the  secret  of  the  keenest 
pleasure — it  was  to  be  found  along  nature's  way.  There 
pleasure  was  true  to  a  purpose,  achieving  a  great  end,  con- 
centrated on  that,  not  dissipated  in  passing  and  unfruitful 
joys.     Blake  was  sure  that  he  was  right  now,  sure  that  he 


102  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

wanted  to  be  reformed,  more  sure  than  ever  that  wisdom 
and:  virtue-  .were  mere  pleasurable  (as  well  as  being  bet- 
ter) than  their  opposkes.  A  man  of  ready  sensibility  and 
quick  feeling,  he  was  open  to  the  suggestion  and  alive  to 
the  beauty  of  what  he  saw.  It  seemed  to  him  holy— and 
the  feelings  it  evoked  in  him  seemed  almost  holy  too. 
"Motherhood!"  he  said  to  himself,  not  knowing,  at  least 
not  acknowledging,  that  his  true  meaning  was  this  woman 
as  mother,  motherhood  incarnate  in  her.  Yet  that  it  was. 
If  his  aspirations  were  awake,  his  blood  too  was  stirred. 
But  the  moment  for  that  to  come  to  light  was  not  yet.  The 
good  seemed  still  unalloyed,  his  high-soaring  aspirations 
were  guiltless  of  self-knowledge. 

Sibylla  played  with  the  child  till  she  could  play  no  more 
— till  she  feared  to  tire  him,  she  would  have  said — in  truth 
till  the  tenderness  which  had  found  a  mask  in  the  sport 
would  conceal  its  face  no  more,  and  in  a  spasm  of  love  she 
caught  the  little  creature  to  her,  pressing  her  face  to  his. 

"Poor  little  darling!"  Blake  heard  her  say  in  a  whisper 
full  of  pity  as  well  as  of  love. 

Whence  came  the  pity?  The  mother's  natural  fear  that 
her  sheltering  may  not  avail  against  all  the  world?  Most 
likely  it  was  only  that.  But  the  pity  was  poignant,  and  he 
wondered  vaguely. 

They  were  thus,  she  and  the  child  locked  together,  the 
young  man  dimly  picturing  the  truth  as  he  watched,  when 
Grantley  Imason  came  in.  A  start  ran  through  Sibylla; 
she  caught  a  last  kiss  from  the  little  face,  and  then  laid  her 
baby  down.  Swiftly  she  turned  round  to  her  husband. 
Blake  had  risen,  watching  still — nay,  more  eagerly.  For 
all  he  could  do,  his  eyes  sought  her  face  and  rested  there, 
trying  to  trace  what  feeling  found  expression  as  she  turned 
to  her  husband  from  her  child. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Blake.  Ah,  you've  got  the  little  chap 
there !" 


IDEALS  AND  ASPIRATIONS  103 

He  chucked  the  child  under  its  chin,  as  he  went  by,  gen- 
tly and  affectionately,  and  came  with  outstretched  hand  to 
his  friend — for  he  liked  sunny  impetuous  young  Blake, 
though  he  thought  very  lightly  of  him.  As  they  shook 
hands,  Blake's  eyes  travelled  past  him,  and  dwelt  again  on 
Sibylla.  She  stood  by  her  child,  and  her  regard  was  on  her 
husband.  Then,  for  a  moment,  she  met  Blake's  inquiring 
gaze.  The  slightest  smile  came  on  her  lips,  just  a  touch  of 
colour  in  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,  but  it's  time  for  him  to  go  upstairs,"  she  said. 

Grantley  had  passed  on  to  the  table,  and  was  pouring 
himself  out  a  cup  of  tea.  Sibylla  walked  across  the  room 
and  rang  the  bell  for  the  baby's  nurse.  Blake  took  up  his 
hat. 

The  spell  was  broken.  What  had  it  been  and  why  was 
it  dispelled?  Blake  did  not  know,  but  turgid  feelings  min- 
gled with  his  aspirations  now,  and  he  looked  at  Grantley 
Imason  with  a  new  covert  hostility. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

A    SUCCESSFUL    MISSION 

EFFORTS  were  on  foot  to  avert  the  scandal  and 
public  disaster  which  so  imminently  threatened 
the  Courtlands.  Grantley  Imason,  who  had  a 
real  friendship  for  Tom,  interested  himself  in  them.  Not 
merely  the  home  was  in  danger,  but  Tom's  position  and 
career,  also  Tom's  solvency.  He  had  always  lived  up  to 
his  income;  now,  without  doubt,  he  was  spending  sums  far 
beyond  it;  and,  as  has  been  seen,  the  precautions  which  he 
had  declared  he  would  use  were  falling  into  neglect  as  the 
sense  of  hopelessness  grew  upon  his  mind.  From  such 
neglect  to  blank  effrontery  and  defiance  looked  as  though  it 
would  be  but  a  short  step.  And  he  refused  obstinately  to 
make  any  advances  to  his  wife;  he  would  not  hear  of  suing 
for  peace. 

"My  dear  fellow,  think  of  the  children !"  Grantley 
urged. 

Poor  Tom  often  thought  of  the  children,  and  often  tried 
not  to.  He  knew  very  well  where  he  was  going  and  what 
his  going  there  must  mean  to  them.  Yet  he  held  on  his 
way,  obstinately  assuring  himself  that  the  fault  for  which 
they  must  suffer  was  not  his. 

"I  do  think  of  them,  but — it  was  past  bearing,  Grant- 
ley." 

"I  think  you  must  have  given  her  a  real  fright  by  now. 
Perhaps  she'll  be  more  amenable." 

"Harriet  amenable!     Good  Lord!" 

"Look  here,  if  she  can  be  got  to  express  regret  and  hold 

104 


A  SUCCESSFUL  MISSION  105 

out  the  olive  branch,  you  know,  will  you  drop  all  this,  and 
give  the  thing  one  more  trial?" 

It  was  a  favourable  moment  for  the  request,  since  Tom 
happened  to  be  cross  with  his  pleasures  too — they  were  so 
very  expensive.  He  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded  to 
say  yes. 

But  who  was  to  beard  Lady  Harriet  in  her  den  ?  There 
was  no  eagerness  to  undertake  the  task;  yet  everybody 
agreed  that  a  personal  interview  was  the  only  chance. 
Grantley  fairly  "funked  it,"  and  honestly  said  so.  Ray- 
more's  nerves  were  still  so  upset  that  his  excuses  were  ac- 
cepted— it  was  morally  certain  that  Harriet,  if  she  became 
angry,  would  taunt  him  about  his  boy.  Selford?  That 
was  absurd.  And  it  was  not  a  woman's  work.  The  lot 
fell  on  John  Fanshaw — John,  with  his  business  prestige 
and  high  reputation  for  common  sense.  And  Lady  Har- 
riet liked  him  best  of  them  all.  The  choice  was  felt  to  be 
excellent  by  everyone — except  John  himself. 

"Haven't  I  enough  worries  of  my  own?"  he  demanded. 
"Why  the  devil  am  I  to  take  on  Tom  Courtland's  too?" 

uOh,  do  try!  It  can't  hurt  you  if  she  does  fly  into  a 
passion,  John." 

He  grumbled  a  great  deal  more;  and  Christine,  in  an 
unusually  chastened  mood,  performed  the  wifely  function 
of  meeting  his  grumbles  with  mingled  consolation  and 
praise. 

"Well,  I'll  go  on  Sunday,"  he  said  at  last,  and  added, 
with  a  look  across  the  table,  "Perhaps  some  of  my  own 
troubles  will  be  off  my  mind  by  then." 

Christine  flushed  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  hope  so,"  she  said  rather  forlornly. 

"I  do  hope  so,"  he  declared  emphatically.  "I  build 
great  hopes  on  it.     It  is  to-day  you're  going,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  to-day.     After  lunch,  I  said  I'd  come." 


106  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Did  he  write  back  cordially?" 
"Well,  what  could  the  poor  man  do,  John?" 
"Ha,  ha !  Well,  I  suppose  a  fellow  generally  does  an- 
swer cordially  when  a  pretty  woman  proposes  to  call  on 
him.  Ha,  ha!"  John's  hopes  made  him  merry  and  jo- 
vial. "I  say,  I  shall  get  back  as  early  as  I  can  from  the 
City,  and  try  to  be  here  in  time  to  welcome  you.     And  if 

it's  gone  all  right,  why " 

"Don't  let  yourself  be  too  sure." 
"No,  I  won't.     Oh,  no,  I  won't  do  that!" 
But  it  was  not  hard  to  see  how  entirely  he  built  all  his 
trust  on  this  last  remaining  chance.     He  rose  from  the 
breakfast-table. 

"All  right.  To-day's  Thursday.  I'll  go  to  Lady  Har- 
riet on  Sunday.  Not  much  harm  can  happen  in  three  days. 
Good-bye,  old  girl,  and — and  good  luck!" 

Christine  suffered  his  kiss — a  ceremony  not  usual  to  their 
daily  parting  in  the  morning.  When  he  had  gone,  she  sat 
on  a  long  while  behind  the  tea-things  at  the  breakfast-table, 
deep  in  thought,  trying  to  picture  the  work  of  the  day  which 
lay  before  her.  It  was  extraordinarily  hateful  to  her,  and 
she  had  hardly  been  able  to  endure  John's  jocularity  and 
his  talk  about  pretty  women  coming  to  call. 

Because  there  had  once  been  some  talk,  she  had  told 
Caylesham  that  she  would  bring  a  friend  with  her,  naming 
Anna  Selford.  Anna  would  go  in  with  her,  and  wait  in 
another  room  while  they  had  their  meeting.  Caylesham 
thought  this  rather  superfluous,  but  had  no  objection  to 
make.  He  could  not  form  any  idea  why  she  was  coming, 
until  it  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  he  had  a  few  letters 
of  hers  somewhere,  and  that  women  were  apt  to  get  frights 
about  letters,  picturing  sudden  deaths,  and  not  remember- 
ing that  a  wise  man  chooses  a  discreet  executor.  With 
this  notion  in  his  head  he  hunted  about,  and  did  find  two 


A  SUCCESSFUL  MISSION  I07 

or  three  letters.  But  they  were  quite  harmless ;  in  order  to 
see  this  he  read  them  through,  and  then  laid  them  down 
with  a  smile.  After  a  few  moments  of  reflection  he  put 
them  into  an  envelope,  sealed  them  up,  and  placed  them 
on  the  table  by  him  ready  for  Christine.  He  was  a  man 
of  forty-five,  and  he  looked  it.  But  he  was  tall,  thin,  well 
set  up,  and  always  exceedingly  well  turned-out.  Beyond 
his  rank  and  his  riches,  his  only  fame  lay  in  sporting  circles. 
He  and  John  Fanshaw  had  first  made  acquaintance  over 
horses,  and  he  still  went  in  for  racing  on  a  considerable 
scale.  He  was  unmarried,  and  likely  to  remain  so.  There 
was  a  nephew  to  inherit:  and  he  had  pleased  himself  so 
much  that  he  found  it  hard  to  please  himself  any  more  now. 
And  he  had,  unlike  Walter  Blake,  no  aspirations.  He  had 
a  code  of  morals,  and  a  very  strict  one,  so  far  as  it  went; 
but  it  was  not  co-extensive  with  more  generally  recognised 
codes. 

Directly  Christine  came  in,  he  noticed  how  pretty  and 
dainty  and  young  she  looked;  at  least  she  pleased  him  still. 
He  greeted  her  with  great  cordiality  and  with  no  embar- 
rassment, and  made  her  sit  down  in  a  chair  by  the  fire. 
She  was  a  little  pale,  but  he  did  not  observe  that;  what  he 
noted — and  noted  with  a  touch  of  amusement — was  that 
she  met  his  eyes  as  seldom  as  possible. 

"I  really  couldn't  think  to  what  I  owed  this  pleasure — " 
he  began. 

But  she  interrupted  him. 

"You  couldn't  possibly  have  guessed.  Pve  got  to  tell 
you  that." 

"It's  not  these?" 

He  held  up  the  letters  in  their  envelope. 

"What  are  they?" 

"Only  two  or  three  notes  of  yours — all  I've  got,  I 
think." 


I08  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Notes  of  mine?  Oh,  put  them  in  the  fire!  It  wasn't 
that." 

"I  suppose  we  may  as  well  put  them  in  the  fire,"  he 
agreed. 

As  the  fire  burnt  up  the  letters,  Christine  looked  at  the 
fire  and  said: 

"John  has  sent  me  here." 

"John  sent  you  here?" 

He  was  surprised,  and  again  perhaps  a  trifle  amused. 

"You  don't  suppose  I  should  have  come  of  my  own  ac- 
cord?    I  hate  coming." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!  We're  always  friends,  always 
friends.  But  suppose  you  do  insist  on  'hating'  to  come — 
well,  why  have  you  come?" 

She  looked  at  him  now. 

"I  couldn't  help  it.  I  refused  at  first,  but  I — I  had  no 
reason  to  give  if  I'd  gone  on  refusing.  He'd  have — sus- 
pected." 

"Ah!" 

The  explanation  drew  an  understanding  nod  from  him. 

"So  I  came.    He's  sent  me  to  borrow  money  from  you." 

"To  borrow  money?     What,  is  John ?" 

"Yes,  he's  in  great  difficulties.  He  wants  a  lot  of  money 
at  once." 

"But  why  didn't  he  come  himself?  It's  rather  odd 
to " 

"I  suppose  he  hated  it  too.  He  has  done  it  once.  I 
mean,  he's  been  to  Grantley  Imason.  And — and  he 
thought — you'd  be  more  likely  to  do  it  if  I  asked." 

"Did  he?     Does  that  mean " 

"No,  no,  not  in  the  least.  He  only  thought  you  were — 
that  you  liked  pretty  women."  She  held  out  a  piece  of 
paper.  "He's  put  it  all  down  there.  I  think  I'd  better 
give  it  to  you.     It  says  what  he  wants,  and  when  he  must 


A  SUCCESSFUL  MISSION  109 

have  it,  and  how  he'll  pay  it  back.  I  promised  to  tell  you 
all  that,  but  you'd  better  read  it  for  yourself." 

He  took  the  paper  from  her  and  studied  it.  She  looked 
round  the  room,  which  she  had  known  very  well.  It  was 
quite  unchanged.  Then  she  watched  him  while  he  read. 
He  had  grown  older,  but  he  had  not  lost  his  attractiveness. 
For  a  moment  or  two  she  forgot  the  present  state  of  things. 

"Fifteen  thousand !  It's  a  bit  of  money !"  This  remark 
recalled  Christine's  thoughts.  "Has  Imason  lent  him 
that?" 

"Yes,  on  the  same  terms  that  he  suggests  there." 

"Well,  Imason's  a  good  fellow,  but  he's  a  banker,  and 
— well,  I  should  think  he  expects  to  get  it  back.  I  say, 
John's  been  having  a  bit  of  a  plunge,  eh?  Consequently 
he's  in  deep  water  now?    Is  he  very  much  cut  up?" 

"Terribly!  It  means  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  his  reputa- 
tion, and — oh,  I  don't  know  what  besides!" 

"Poor  old  John!     He's  a  good  chap,  isn't  he?" 

She  made  no  answer  to  that,  and  he  muttered : 

"Fifteen  thousand!" 

"Frank,"  she  said,  "I've  done  what  I  had  to  do,  what 
I  promised  to.  I've  shown  you  the  paper;  I've  told  you 
how  much  this  money  means  to  us;  I've  told  you  it  means 
avoiding  ruin  and  bankruptcy  and  all  that  disgrace.  That's 
what  John  made  me  promise  to  tell  you,  and  it's  all  I  have 
to  tell  you  from  him.  I've  done  what  I  said  I  would  on 
his  behalf." 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  all  right.  Don't  distress  yourself, 
Christine.  I  just  want  to  have  another  look  at  this  paper, 
and  to  think  it  over  a  little.  It  is  a  goodish  bit  of  money, 
you  know.  But  then  old  John's  always  been  a  good  friend 
of  mine,  and  if  times  weren't  so  uncommon  bad " 

He  wrinkled  his  brow  over  the  paper  again. 

"And  now  I  have  to  speak  on  my  own  account.     Frank, 


no  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

you  must  find  some  good,  some  plausible,  reason  for  re- 
fusing.    You  mustn't  lend  John  the  money." 

"Hallo!" 

He  looked  up  from  the  paper  in  great  surprise. 

"You  see,  John  doesn't  know  the  truth,"  she  answered. 

He  rose  and  stood  by  the  fire,  looking  down  on  her 
thoughtfully. 

"No,  of  course  he  doesn't,  or — or  you  wouldn't  be  here," 
he  said,  after  a  pause. 

Then  he  fell  into  thought  again. 

"And  if  he  did  know,  he'd  never  ask  you  for  the  money," 
she  said. 

Caylesham  made  a  wry  little  grimace.  That  might  be 
true  of  John,  but  he  would  hesitate  to  say  the  same  about 
every  fellow.    Christine,  however,  did  not  see  the  grimace. 

"And  you  don't  want  me  to  lend  it — not  though  it  means 
all  this  to  John?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  lend  it,  whatever  it  means.  Pray 
don't  lend  it,  Frank!" 

"Is  that —  Well,  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  put  it.  I 
mean,  is  that  on  John's  account  or  on  your  own?" 

"I  can't  give  you  reasons;  I  can't  put  them  in  words. 
It's  just  terribly  hateful  to  me." 

He  was  puzzled  by  the  point  of  view,  and  still  more  by 
finding  it  in  her.  Perhaps  the  last  six  years  had  made  a 
difference  in  her  way  of  looking  at  things;  they  had  made 
none  in  his. 

"And  if  I  do  as  you  wish,  what  are  you  going  to  say 
to  John  ?  Are  you  going  to  say  to  him  that  in  the  end  you 
told  me  not  to  lend  the  money?" 

"Of  course  not.  I  shall  say  that  you  said  you  couldn't; 
you'll  have  to  give  me  the  reasons." 

He  looked  discontented. 

"It'll  look  rather  shabby,"  he  suggested. 


A  SUCCESSFUL  MISSION  in 

"Oh,  no!  It's  a  large  sum.  It  would  be  quite  likely 
that  it  wouldn't  be  convenient  to  you." 

"Is  he  expecting  to  get  it?" 

"I  don't  think  that  has  anything  to  do  with  it.  I  sup- 
pose— well,  drowning  men  catch  at  straws." 

She  smiled  dolefully. 

The  phrase  was  unlucky  for  her  purpose.  It  stirred 
Caylesham's  pity. 

"Poor  old  John !"  he  murmured  again.  "What'll  he 
do  if  he  doesn't  get  it?" 

"I  don't  know — I  told  you  I  didn't  know." 

He  was  puzzled  still.  He  could  not  get  down  to  the 
root  of  her  objection;  and  she  could  not,  or  would  not,  put 
it  plainly  to  him.  She  could  not  express  the  aspect  of  the 
affair  that  was,  as  she  said,  so  terribly  hateful  to  her.  But 
it  was  there.  All  she  had  given  she  had  given  long  ago 
— given  freely  long  ago.  Now  was  she  not  asking  a  price 
for  it — and  a  price  which  her  husband  was  to  share  ?  Only 
on  that  ground  really  was  she  there.  For  now  the  man 
loved  her  no  more;  there  was  no  glamour  and  no  screen. 
After  all  these  years  she  came  back  and  asked  a  price — 
a  price  John  was  to  share. 

But  the  case  did  not  strike  Caylesham  at  all  like  this. 
John  suspected  nothing,  or  John  would  not  have  sent  his 
wife  there.  John  had  been  a  very  good  friend;  he  would 
like  to  do  John  a  good  turn.  In  his  case  the  very  circum- 
stances which  so  revolted  Christine  made  him  more  inclined 
to  do  John  a  good  turn.  Although  he  could  not  pretend 
that  the  affair  had  ever  made  him  uncomfortable,  still  its 
existence  in  the  past  helped  John's  cause  with  him  now. 

"You're  not  a  very  trustworthy  ambassador,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "I  don't  think  you're  playing  fair  with  John, 
you  know." 

"Why  do  you — you — expect  me  to?"  she  asked  bitterly. 


H2  DOUBLE    HARNESS 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  discreet  evasion,  seeing 
the  threatened  opening  of  a  discussion  of  a  sort  always 
painful  and  useless. 

"John  wiH  take  failure,  and  all  that,  devilish  hard." 

He  took  up  the  paper  again  and  looked  at  it.  He  knew 
the  business  was  a  very  good  one;  after  such  a  warning 
as  this  a  man  would  surely  go  steady ;  and  Grantley  Imason 
had  lent  money.  He  built  a  good  deal  on  that.  And — 
yes — in  the  end  he  was  ready  to  run  a  risk,  being  a  good- 
natured  man  and  fond  of  John,  and  feeling  that  it  would 
be  a  very  becoming  thing  in  him  to  do  a  service  to  John. 

"Look  here,  I  shall  attend  to  your  official  message.  I 
shan't  take  any  notice  of  these  private  communications," 
he  said  lightly,  but  kindly,  almost  affectionately.  "And 
you  mustn't  feel  that  sort  of  way  about  it.  Why,  I've  got 
a  right  to  help  you,  anyhow ;  and  I  can't  see  why  I  mustn't 
help  John." 

He  went  to  the  table  and  wrote.  He  came  back  to  her 
holding  a  check  in  his  hand. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  said.  "John  will  send  me  a  letter  em- 
bodying the  business  side.  I've  post-dated  the  check  four 
days,  because  I  must  see  my  bankers  about  it.  Oh,  it's  not 
inconvenient;  only  needs  a  few  days'  notice — and  it'll  be 
in  time  for  what  John  wants.     Here,  take  it,  Christine." 

He  pressed  the  check  into  her  hands,  and  with  a  play- 
ful show  of  force  shut  her  fingers  upon  it. 

"I  know  this  has  been  a — a — "  He  looked  round  the 
room,  seeming  to  seek  an  apt  form  of  expression.  "This 
has  been  an  uncomfortable  job  for  you,  but  you  really 
mustn't  look  at  it  like  that,  you  know." 

"If  you  give  it  me,  I  must  take  it.  I  daren't  accept  the 
responsibility  of  refusing  it." 

He  was  quite  eager  to  comfort  her. 

"You're  doing  quite  right.  You  were  perfectly  square 
with  me;  now  you're  beine  perfectly  square  with  John." 


A  SUCCESSFUL  MISSION  113 

Perfectly  square  with  John !  Christine's  lips  curved  in 
a  smile  of  scorn.  But — well,  sometimes  one  loses  the  right 
or  the  power  to  be  perfectly  square. 

"And  I'm  downright  glad  to  help — downright  glad  you 
came  to  me." 

"I  only  came  because  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Then  I'm  downright  glad  you  couldn't  help  it." 

She  had  loved  this  unalterable  good-temper  of  his,  and 
admired  the  tactful  way  he  had  of  humouring  women.  If 
they  wouldn't  have  it  in  one  way,  he  had  always  been  quite 
ready  to  offer  it  to  them  in  the  other,  so  long  as  they  took 
it  in  the  end;  and  this  they  generally  did.  She  rose  to  her 
feet,  holding  the  check  in  her  hand. 

"Your  purse,  perhaps?"  he  suggested,  laughing.  "You 
see,  it  might  puzzle  your  young  friend.  And  give  old 
John  my  remembrances — and  good  luck  to  him.  Are  you 
going  now?" 

"Yes,  Frank,  I'm  going  now." 

"Good-bye,  Christine.  I  often  think  of  you,  you  know. 
I  often  remember — ah,  I  see  I  mustn't  often  remember ! 
Well,  you're  right,  I  suppose.  But  I'm  always  your  friend. 
Don't  be  in  any  trouble  without  letting  me  know." 

"I  shall  never  come  to  you  again." 

He  grew  a  little  impatient  at  that,  but  still  he  was  quite 
good-natured  about  it. 

"What's  the  use  of  brooding?"  he  asked.  "I  mean,  if 
you're  running  straight  now,  it's  no  good  being  remorse- 
ful and  that  sort  of  thing;  it  just  wears  you  out.  It  would 
make  you  look  old,  if  anything  could.  But  I  don't  believe 
anything  could,  you  know." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  Her  lips  trembled,  but  she 
smiled  at  him  now. 

"Good-bye,  Frank.  If  I  have  any  hard  thoughts,  they 
won't  be  about  you.  You  can  always" — she  hesitated  a 
minute — "always  disarm  criticism,  can't  you?" 


n4  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Caylesham  stooped  and  kissed  her  hand  lightly. 

"Don't  fret,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "You're  better  than 
most  by  a  long  way.  Now  take  your  cheque  off  to  poor 
old  John,  and  both  of  you  be  as  jolly  as  you  can."  He 
pressed  her  hand  cordially  and  led  her  to  the  door.  "I'm 
glad  we've  settled  things  all  right.     Good-bye." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him,  but  still  she  could  not  help 
smiling  as  she  said  her  last  good-bye.  With  the  turning 
of  her  face  the  smile  disappeared. 

Caylesham's  smile  lasted  longer.  He  stood  on  his 
hearthrug,  smiling  as  he  remembered;  and  an  idea  which 
forced  its  way  into  his  head  did  not  drive  away  the  smile. 
He  wondered  whether,  by  any  chance,  old  John  had  any 
vague  sort  of — well,  hardly  suspicion — but  some  vague  sort 
of  an  inkling.  He  would  not  have  hinted  that  to  Christine, 
since  evidently  she  did  not  believe  it,  and  it  might  have 
upset  her.  But  really,  in  the  end,  was  it  not  more  odd  to 
send  Christine  if  he  had  no  inkling  at  all  than  if  he  had 
just  some  sort  of  an  idea  that  there  was  a  reason  why  her 
request  might  be  very  much  more  potent  than  his  own  ?  He 
was  inclined  to  think  that  John  suspected  just  a  flirtation. 
The  notion  made  him  considerably  amused  at  John,  but  not 
at  all  angry  with  him.  It  was  not  a  thing  he  would  have 
done  himself,  perhaps.  Still  you  never  can  tell  what  you 
will  do  when  you  are  in  a  really  tight  corner.  His  racing 
experiences  had  presented  him  with  a  good  many  cases 
which  supported  this  conclusion. 

Christine  felt  very  tired,  but  she  was  not  going  to  give 
way  to  that;  Anna  Selford  was  too  sharp-witted.  She 
chatted  gaily  as  they  drove  home,  mainly  about  the  sub- 
ject which  grieved  them  both  so  much — Mrs.  Selford's 
taste  in  frocks !  Matters  were  in  an  even  more  dire  way 
now;  Anna  could  get  no  frocks.  Between  pictures  and 
dogs,  she  declared,  her  wardrobe  stood  no  chance.    Chris- 


A  SUCCESSFUL  MISSION  115 

tine  was  genuinely  unable  to  comprehend  such  a  confusion 
of  relative  importance. 

"I  detest  fads,"  she  said  severely. 

"It  doesn't  give  me  a  fair  chance,"  lamented  Anna;  "be- 
cause I  should  pay  for  dressing,  shouldn't  I,  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw?" 

Christine  reiterated  her  belief  to  that  effect.  It  was  a 
melancholy  comfort  to  poor  Anna. 

''Suppose  I'd  been  going  to  see  Lord  Caylesham, 
dressed  like  this!" 

"My  dear,  he's  old  enough  to  be  your  father." 

"That  doesn't  matter.  He's  so  smart  and  good-looking. 
I  see  him  riding  sometimes  with  Mr.  Imason,  and  he's  just 
the  sort  of  man  I  admire.  I  know  I  should  fall  in  love  with 
him." 

Christine  laughed,  but  turned  her  face  a  little  away. 

"I  won't  help  you  there;  our  alliance  is  only  on  the  sub- 
ject of  frocks." 

But  how  well  she  knew  what  Anna  meant  and  felt! 
And  now  she  was  a  trifle  uneasy.  Had  any  of  that  talk 
filtered  through  leaky  Selford  conversations  to  Anna's  ea- 
gerly listening  ears? 

"Mamma  once  told  me  he'd  been  very,  very  wild." 

"Stuff !  They  always  say  that  about  a  man  if  he's  a 
bachelor.     Sheer  feminine  spite,  in  my  belief,  Anna !" 

"What  did  you  go  to  see  him  about?  Oh,  is  it  a  se- 
cret?" 

Christine  was  really  rather  glad  to  hear  the  question. 
It  showed  that  nothing  very  much  of  the  talk  had  filtered. 
And  she  had  her  story  ready. 

"Oh,  about  a  horse.  You  know  we've  had  to  sell  our 
bays,  and  he's  got  one  that  we  thought  we  could  buy  cheap. 
John  was  so  busy  that  I  went.  But,  alas,  it's  beyond  us, 
after  all." 


n6  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Yes,  you  told  me  you'd  sold  a  pair."  Anna  nodded 
significantly. 

Christine  smiled.  She  was  reflecting  how  many  crises 
of  life  demand  a  departure  from  veracity,  and  what  art 
resides  in  the  choice  of  a  lie.  She  had  chosen  one  which, 
implying  that  Anna  was  in  her  confidence,  pleased  and 
quieted  that  young  woman,  and  sent  her  off  home  without 
any  suspicions  as  to  the  visit  or  its  connection  with  the  finan- 
cial crisis  otherwise  than  through  the  horses. 

She  did  not  ask  Anna  in  to  tea,  because  John  would  be 
there,  home  early  from  the  City,  waiting.  Now  that  the 
thing  was  done,  she  was  minded  to  make  as  light  of  it  as 
possible.  Since  she  had  been  compelled  to  go,  let  John  for- 
get under  what  pressure  and  how  unwillingly  she  had  gone. 
Thus  the  faintest  breath  of  suspicion  would  be  less  likely 
to  rest  on  her  secret.  She  trusted  to  her  self-control;  she 
would  chaff  him  a  little  before  she  told  him  of  the  success 
of  her  mission. 

But  the  first  sight  of  his  face  drove  the  idea  out  of  her 
head.  It  might  be  safer  for  her;  it  would  actually  be  not 
safe  for  him.  She  was  convinced  of  this  when  she  saw  the 
strain  in  his  eyes  and  how  his  whole  figure  seemed  in  a 
tension  of  excitement.  She  closed  the  door  carefully  be- 
hind her, 

"Well,"  he  cried,  "what  news  ?  By  God,  I've  been  able 
to  do  no  work !  I  haven't  been  able  to  think  of  anything 
else  all  day.    Don't — don't  say  you've  failed !" 

"No,"  she  said,  opening  her  purse,  "I  haven't  failed. 
Here's  a  cheque  from  Lord  Caylesham.  It's  post-dated, 
but  only  a  day  or  two.    That  doesn't  matter?" 

She  came  to  him  and  gave  him  the  cheque.  He  put  it 
on  the  table  and  rested  his  head  on  his  arm.  He  seemed 
almost  dazed;  the  stiffness  had  gone  out  of  his  body. 

"By  Jove,  he's  a  good  sort!  By  Jove,  he  is  a  good 
sort!"  he  murmured. 


A  SUCCESSFUL  MISSION  117 

"He  was  very  kind  indeed.  He  made  no  difficulties. 
He  said  he  was  sure  he  could  trust  you  and  was  glad  to 
help  you.  And  he  sent  his  remembrances  and  good  luck 
to  you,  John." 

She  had  taken  off  her  fur  coat  and  her  hat  as  she  was 
speaking,  and  now  sank  down  into  a  chair. 

"By  Jove,  he  is  a  good  sort!"  John  suddenly  sprang 
up.  "It  means  salvation!"  he  cried.  "That's  what  it 
means — salvation  !  I  can  pay  my  way.  I  can  look  people 
in  the  face.  I  shan't  bring  the  business  to  ruin  and  shame. 
Oh,  I've  had  my  lesson — I  go  steady  now !  And  if  I  don't 
pay  these  good  chaps  every  farthing,  call  me  a  scoundrel ! 
They  are  good  chaps,  Grantley  and  old  Caylesham — 
devilish  good  chaps!" 

"Don't  go  quite  off  your  head,  John  dear.  Try  to  take 
it  quietly." 

"Ah,  you  take  it  quietly  enough,  don't  you,  old  girl?" 
he  exclaimed,  coming  up  to  her.  "But  you've  done  it  all — 
yes,  by  heaven  you  have!  I  know  you  didn't  like  it;  I 
know  you  hated  it.  You're  so  proud,  and  I  like  that  in 
you  too.  But  it  wasn't  a  time  for  pride,  and  you  put  yours 
in  your  pocket  for  my  sake — yes,  for  my  sake,  I  know  it. 
We've  had  our  rows,  old  girl,  but  if  ever  a  man  had  a  good 
wife  in  the  end,  I  have,  and  I  know  it." 

He  caught  hold  of  her  hands  and  pulled  her  to  her  feet, 
drawing  her  toward  him  at  the  same  time. 

"Quietly,  John,"  she  said,  "quietly." 

"What,  don't  you  want  to  give  me  a  kiss?" 

"I'll  give  you  a  kiss,  but  quietly.     Poor  old  John !" 

She  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

"Now  let  me  go.     I — I'm  tired." 

"Well,  you  shall  rest,"  he  said  good-naturedly,  and  let 
her  go. 

She  sank  back  in  her  seat  and  watched  him  turn  to  the 
cheque  again. 


u8  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"It's  salvation!"  he  repeated,  and  paid  no  heed  to  a 
sudden  quick  gasp  of  breath  from  her  throat. 

Even  Caylesham  would  have  allowed  that  he  had  no 
suspicion.  But  Christine  sat  a  prey  to  vague  forebodings. 
She  felt  as  though  the  thing  were  not  finished  yet.  The 
dead  would  not  bury  its  dead. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

THE    FLINTY   WALL 

THERE  was  one  point  about  Jeremy  Chidding- 
fold's  system  of  philosophy — if  that  name  may 
be  allowed  to  dignify  the  rather  mixed  assort- 
ment of  facts  and  inferences  which  he  had  gathered  from 
his  studies :  this  point  was  that  there  was  no  appeal  against 
facts.  Nature  was  nature,  feelings  were  feelings,  and 
change  was  development.  One  thing  was  right  to-day;  it 
became  wrong  to-morrow  without  ceasing  to  have  been 
right  yesterday.  Let  there  be  an  end  of  ignorant  parrot- 
like chatter  about  inconsistency!  Is  evolution  inconsist- 
ency? Inconsistency  with  what?  He  put  this  question 
and  kindred  ones  quite  heatedly  to  Mrs.  Mumple,  who  did 
not  at  all  understand  them,  and  to  whom  they  savoured  of 
unorthodoxy;  she  had  ever  distrusted  a  scientific  education. 
If  Jeremy  could  have  put  his  case  in  a  concrete  form,  he 
would  have  won  her  sympathy.  But  she  did  not  know 
where  such  general  principles  would  stop,  and  she  had 
heard  that  there  were  persons  who  impugned  the  authority 
of  Moses. 

Jeremy  did  not  care  much  about  Mrs.  Mumple's  ap- 
proval, though  he  tried  his  arguments  on  her  as  a  boxer 
tries  his  fists  on  a  stuffed  sack  (she  suggested  the  simile). 
He  did  not  expect  to  convince  her,  and  would  have  been 
rather  sorry  if  he  had.  In  her  present  mental  condition 
she  was  invaluable  as  a  warning  and  a  butt.  But  it  was 
exasperating  that  Mrs.  Hutting  should  hold  antique,  ludi- 
crous, and  (in  his  opinion)  in  the  end  debased  views  about 

119 


120  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

social  intercourse  between  the  sexes — in  fact  (to  descend 
to  that  concrete  which  Jeremy's  soul  abhorred)  about  girls 
of  seventeen  taking  walks  with  young  men  of  twenty-two. 
Mrs.  Hutting's  views  on  this  point  imposed  on  Jeremy 
proceedings  which  he  felt  to  be  unbecoming  to  a  philoso- 
pher. He  had  to  scheme,  to  lie  in  wait,  to  plan  most  un- 
likely accidents,  on  occasion  to  palter  with  truth,  to  slip 
behind  a  waggon  or  to  hide  inside  a  barn.  A  recognition 
on  Mrs.  Hutting's  part  of  nature,  of  facts,  and  of  devel- 
opment would  have  relieved  Jeremy  from  all  these  dis- 
tasteful expedients. 

But  Mrs.  Hutting  was  an  old-fashioned  woman.  She 
obeyed  her  husband — usually,  however,  suggesting  on 
what  points  he  might  reasonably  require  obedience.  She 
expected  her  daughter  to  obey  her.  And  she  had  her 
views,  which  she  had  enforced  in  a  very  quiet  but  a  very 
firm  way.  Modern  tendencies  were  not  in  favour  at  the 
rectory:  that  being  established  as  a  premise,  it  followed 
that  anything  which  was  disapproved  of  at  the  rectory  was 
a  modern  tendency;  wherefore  clandestine  and  spuriously 
accidental  meetings  between  young  men  and  young  women 
were  a  modern  tendency,  or,  anyhow,  signs  of  one — and 
of  a  very  bad  one  too.  No  ancient  instances  would  have 
shaken  Mrs.  Hutting  on  this  point;  the  chain  of  logic 
was  too  strong.  Certainly  Dora  never  tried  to  shake  her 
mother's  judgment  or  to  break  the  chain.  For  Dora  was 
old-fashioned  too.  She  admitted  that  clandestine  and  spu- 
riously accidental  meetings  were  wrong.  But  sometimes 
the  clandestine  character  or  the  spuriousness  of  the  acci- 
dent could  be  plausibly  questioned;  besides,  a  thing  may  be 
wrong,  and  yet  not  be  so  very,  very  bad.  And  the  thing 
may  be  such  fun,  and  so  amusing  that — well,  one  goes,  and 
tries  not  to  be  found  out.  On  these  ancient  but  not  obso- 
lete lines  Miss  Dora  framed  her  conduct,  getting  thereby 


THE  FLINTY  WALL  121 

a  spice  of  excitement  and  a  fearful  joy  which  no  duly  li- 
censed encounters  could  have  given  her.  But  she  had  no 
doubt  that  Mrs.  Hutting  was  quite  right.  Anna  Selford's 
critical  attitude  toward  her  parents  was  not  in  the  rectory 
way. 

"Suppose  she'd  seen  us!"  Dora  whispered  behind  the 
barn,  as  the  rectory  pony-chaise  rolled  slowly  by. 

"We're  doing  nothing  wrong.  I  should  like  to  walk 
straight  out  and  say  so." 

"If  you  do,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"I  hate  this — this  dodging!" 

"Then  why  don't  you  take  your  walks  the  other  way? 
You  know  I  come  here.  Why  do  you  come  if  you  feel 
like  that  about  it?" 

Thus  Dora  fleshed  her  maiden  sword.  It  was  an  added 
joy  to  make  Jeremy  do  things  which  he  disliked.  And  all 
this  time  she  was  snubbing  him  and  his  tentative  ap- 
proaches. Lovers?  Certainly  not — or  of  course  she 
would  have  told  mamma!  Accepted  Jeremy?  No — she 
liked  to  think  that  she  was  trifling  with  him.  In  fine,  she 
was  simply  behaving  shamefully  badly,  in  a  rapturously 
delightful  way;  and  to  see  a  pretty  girl  doing  that  is  surely 
a  refreshing  and  rejuvenating  sight? 

Well,  the  word  pretty  is  perhaps  a  concession  to  Jeremy. 
The  only  girl  in  the  place  is  always  pretty.  Dora  was  at 
any  rate  fresh  and  fair,  lithe  and  clean-limbed,  gay  and 
full  of  fun. 

A  dreadful  peril  threatened,  with  which  Dora  appalled 
her  own  fancy  and  Jeremy's  troubled  heart.  At  seventeen 
school  is  still  possible — a  finishing-school.  Mrs.  Hutting 
had  brandished  this  weapon,  conscious  in  her  own  mind 
that  the  rectory  finances  would  hardly  suffice  to  put  an  edge 
on  it.     Dora  did  not  realise  this  difficulty. 

"You  remember  that  time  we  were  seen?    Well,  there 


122  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

was  an  awful  row,  and  mamma  said  that  if  it  happened 

once  again  I  should  go — for  a  year!" 

Jeremy  felt  that  something  must  be  done,  and  said  so. 

"What  could  I  do?" 

That  was  a  little  more  difficult  for  Jeremy. 

"You  must  take  pains  to  avoid  me,"  said  Dora,  school- 
ing her  lips  to  primness.  "You  don't  want  to  get  me  sent 
away,  do  you?" 

Certainly  these  spring  months  were  very  pleasant  to 
Miss  Dora.  But,  alas,  calamity  came.  It  happened  in 
Milldean  just  as  it  might  have  happened  in  the  West  End 
of  London.  The  school-teacher  said  something  to  the 
post-mistress.  There  was  nobody  much  else  to  say  any- 
thing— for  the  wise-eyed  yokels,  when  they  met  the  youth 
and  the  maid,  gave  a  shrewd  kindly  nod,  and  went  on  their 
way  with  an  inarticulate  but  appreciative  chuckle.  How- 
ever the  school-teacher  did  say  something  to  the  post-mis- 
tress, whence  the  something  came  to  Mrs.  Hutting's  ears. 
There  was  another  "row,"  no  doubt  even  more  "awful." 
The  finishing-school  was  brandished  again,  but,  after  a 
private  consultation  on  finance,  put  aside  by  the  rector  and 
Mrs.  Hutting.  Another  weapon  was  chosen.  Mrs.  Hut- 
ting dictated  a  note,  the  rector  wrote  and  sealed  it;  it  was 
sent  across  to  Old  Mill  House  by  the  gardener,  addressed 
to  "Jeremy  Chiddingfold,  Esq."  In  fact  no  circumstance 
of  ceremony  was  omitted,  and  Dora  watched  the  messen- 
ger of  tyranny  from  her  bedroom  window.  In  the  note 
(which  began  "Sir")  Jeremy  was  plainly  given  to  under- 
stand that  he  was  no  gentleman,  and  that  all  relations  be- 
tween the  rectory  and  himself  were  at  an  end. 

Jeremy  stumped  up  and  down  the  room,  furiously  ex- 
claiming that  he  did  not  care  whether  he  was  a  gentleman 
or  not.  He  was  a  man.  That  was  enough  for  him,  and 
ought  to  be  enough  for  anybody.    Mrs.  Mumple  was  pos- 


THE  FLINTY  WALL  123 

itively  frightened  into  agreeing  with  him  on  this  point. 
But  however  sound  the  point  might  be,  relations  with  the 
rectory  were  broken  off !  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Jeremy 
determined  to  go  to  town  and  lay  before  Grantley  and  Si- 
bylla the  unparalleled  circumstances  of  the  case.  But  first 
there  was — well,  there  would  be — one  more  stolen  meeting. 
But  it  was  not  quite  of  the  sort  which  might  have  been  an- 
ticipated. Dora's  levity  was  gone;  she  played  with  him 
no  more.  But  neither  did  she  follow  the  more  probable 
course,  and,  under  the  influence  of  grief  and  the  pain  of 
separation,  give  the  rein  to  her  feelings,  acknowledge  her 
love,  and  exchange  her  vows  for  his.  The  old-fashioned 
standards  had  their  turn;  evidently  the  rectory  upbraidings 
had  been  very  severe.  Every  disobedience,  every  trick, 
every  broken  promise  rose  up  in  judgment,  and  declared 
the  sentence  to  be  just,  however  severe.  Jeremy  was  at  a 
loss  how  to  face  this.  He  had  been  so  convinced  that  na- 
ture was  with  them,  and  that  nature  spelt  rectitude.  He 
was  aghast  at  a  quasi-theological  and  entirely  superstitious 
view  that  no  good  or  happiness  could  come  out  of  a  friend- 
ship (Dora  adhered  obstinately  to  this  word)  initiated  in 
such  a  way.  He  refused  to  recognise  her  wickedness  or 
even  his  own.  When  she  announced  her  full  acceptance 
of  the  edict,  her  determination  to  evince  penitence  by  abso- 
lute submission,  he  could  only  burst  out : 

"They  haven't  been  cruel  to  you?" 

"Cruel?  No!  They've  been  most — most  gentle.  I've 
come  to  see  how  wrong  it  was." 

"Yet  you're  here!"    He  could  not  resist  the  retort. 

"For  the  last  time — to  say  good-bye.  And  if  you 
really  care  at  all,  you  must  do  as  I  wish." 

"But  I  may  write  to  you?" 

"No,  no,  you  mustn't." 


i24  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"You  can't  stop  me  thinking  about  you." 
"I  shan't  think  of  you.     I  shall  pray  to  be  able  not  to. 
I'm  sure  I  can  be  strong." 

She  had  got  this  idea  in  her  head.  It  was  just  the  sort 
of  idea  that  Sibylla  might  have  got.  She  wanted  to  im- 
molate herself.  For  such  views  in  Sibylla  Jeremy  had  al- 
ways had  denunciations  ready.  He  had  no  denunciation 
now — only  a  despairing  puzzle. 

"I  can't  accept  that,  and  I  won't  1    Do  you  love  me?" 

"I'm  going  to  keep  my  promise  to  say  nothing.  I've 
told  you  what  I  must  do  and  what  you  must.  I  made  up 
my  mind — and — and  then  I  went  to  the  Sacrament  to- 
day." 

Jeremy  rubbed  his  wrinkled  brow,  eyeing  this  deter- 
mined penitent  very  ruefully.  A  sudden  return  to  rectitude 
is  disconcerting  in  an  accomplice.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  But  his  bulldog  persistence  was  roused  and 
his  square  jaw  set  obstinately. 

"Well,  I  shall  consider  what  to  do.  I  believe  you  love 
me,  and  I  shan't  sit  down  under  this." 

"You  must,"  she  said.     "And  now,  good-bye." 

He  came  toward  her,  but  her  raised  hand  stopped  him. 

"Good-bye  like  this?    You  won't  even  shake  hands?" 

"No,  I  can't.    Good-bye." 

Of  course  he  was  sorry  for  her,  but  he  was  decidedly  an- 
gry too.  He  perceived  a  case  of  the  selfishness  of  spiritual 
exaltation.     His  doggedness  turned  to  surliness. 

"All  right  then,  good-bye,"  he  said  sulkily. 

"You're  not  angry  with  me?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

She  accepted  this  additional  cross,  and  bore  it  meekly. 

"That  hurts  me  very  much.  But  I  must  do  right. 
Good-bye." 

And  with  that  she  went,  firm  to  the  last,  leaving  Jeremy 


THE  FLINTY  WALL  125 

almost  as  furious  with  women  as  in  the  palmiest  days  of  his 
youth,  almost  as  angry  with  her  as  he  had  ever  been  with 
the  long-legged  rectory  girl. 

Pursuing  (though  he  did  not  know  it)  paths  as  well 
trodden  as  those  which  he  had  already  followed,  he  formed 
an  instant  determination  in  his  mind.  She  should  be  sorry 
for  it !  Whether  she  should  sorrow  with  a  life-long  sorrow 
or  whether  she  should  ultimately,  after  much  grief  and  hu- 
miliation, find  forgiveness,  he  did  not  decide  for  the  mo- 
ment; both  ideas  had  their  attraction.  But  at  any  rate 
she  should  be  sorry,  and  that  as  soon  as  possible.  How 
was  it  to  be  brought  about?  Jeremy  conjectured  that  a  re- 
mote and  ill-ascertained  success  in  original  research  would 
not  make  her  sorry,  and  his  conclusion  may  be  allowed  to 
pass;  nor  would  a  continuance  of  shabby  clothes  and  an 
income  of  a  hundred  a  year.  This  combination  had  once 
seemed  all-sufficient.  Nay,  it  would  suffice  now  for  true 
and  whole-hearted  love.  But  it  was  not  enough  to  make  a 
cruel  lady  repent  of  her  cruelty,  nor  to  convict  a  mis- 
guided zealot  of  the  folly  of  her  zeal.  It  was  not  dazzling 
enough  for  that.  In  an  hour  Jeremy  threw  his  old  ideal  of 
life  to  the  winds,  and  decided  for  wealth  and  mundane 
fame — speedy  wealth  and  speedy  mundane  fame  (Speed 
was  essential,  because  Jeremy's  feelings  were  in  a  hurry). 
Such  laurels  and  fruits  were  not  to  be  plucked  in  Milldean. 
That  very  night  Jeremy  packed  a  well-worn  leather  bag 
and  a  square  deal  box.  He  was  going  to  London,  to  see 
Grantley  and  Sibylla,  to  make  them  acquainted  with  the 
state  of  the  case,  and  to  set  about  becoming  rich  and  fa- 
mous as  speedily  as  possible.  His  mind  o'erleapt  the  proc- 
ess and  saw  it  already  completed — saw  his  return  to  Mill- 
dean  rich  and  famous— saw  his  renewed  meeting  with 
Dora,  the  confusion  of  the  rector  and  Mrs.  Hutting,  the 
unavailing — or  possibly  at  last  availing — regret  and  hu- 


126  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

miliation  of  Dora.  It  cannot  truthfully  be  said  that  he 
went  to  bed  altogether  unhappy.  He  had  his  dream,  even 
as  Dora  had  hers;  he  had  his  luxury  of  prospective  victory 
as  she  had  hers  of  unreserved  and  accepted  penitence ;  and 
they  shared  the  conviction  of  a  very  extraordinary  and  un- 
precedented state  of  things. 

So  to  town  came  Jeremy,  leaving  Mrs.  Mumple  alone 
in  Old  Mill  House.  She  was  not  idle.  She  was  counting 
months  now — not  years  now,  but  months;  and  she  was 
knitting  socks,  and  making  flannel  shirts,  and  hemming  big 
red  handkerchiefs,  and  picturing  and  wondering  in  her 
faithful  old  heart  what  that  morning  would  be  like  for 
whose  coming  she  had  waited  so  many  many  years.  Great 
hopes  and  great  fears  were  under  the  ample  breast  of  her 
unshapely  merino  gown. 

In  the  Imason  household  the  strain  grew  more  intense. 
With  rare  tenacity,  unimpaired  confidence,  and  unbroken 
pride,  Grantley  maintained  his  attitude.  He  would  tire 
out  Sibylla's  revolt;  he  would  outstay  the  fit  of  sulks,  how- 
ever long  it  might  be.  But  the  strain  told  on  him,  though 
it  did  not  break  him:  he  was  more  away;  more  engrossed 
in  his  outside  activities ;  grimmer  and  more  sardonic  when 
he  was  at  home;  careful  to  show  no  feeling  which  might  ex- 
pose him  to  rebuff ;  extending  the  scope  of  this  conduct  from 
his  wife  to  his  child,  because  his  wife's  grievance  was  bound 
up  with  the  child.  And  Sibylla,  seeing  the  attitude,  seeing 
partially  only  and  therefore  more  resenting  the  motives, 
created  out  of  it  and  them  a  monster  of  insensibility,  some- 
thing of  an  inhuman  selfishness,  seeming  the  more  horrible 
and  unnatural  from  the  unchanging,  if  cold,  courtesy  which 
Grantley  still  displayed.  This  image  had  been  taking 
shape  ever  since  their  battle  at  Milldean.  It  had  grown 
with  the  amused  scorn  which  was  on  his  face  as  he  told 
her  of  the  specialist's  judgment,  and  made  her  see  how 


THE  FLINTY  WALL  127 

foolish  she  had  been,  what  an  unnecessary  fuss  she  had 
caused,  how  dangerous  and  silly  it  was  to  let  one's  emo- 
tions run  away  with  one.  It  had  defined  itself  yet  more 
clearly  through  the  months  before  and  after  the  boy's  birth, 
as  Grantley  developed  his  line  of  action  and  adhered  to  it, 
secure  apparently  from  every  assault  of  natural  tenderness. 
Now  the  portentous  shape,  was  all  complete  in  her  imag- 
ination, and  the  monster  she  had  erected  freed  her  from 
every  obligation.  By  her  hypothesis  it  was  accessible  by 
no  appeal  and  sensitive  to  no  emotion.  Why,  then,  labour 
uselessly?  It  would  indeed  be  to  knock  your  head — yes, 
and  your  heart  too — against  a  flinty  wall.  As  for  trying 
to  show  or  to  cherish  love  for  it — that  seemed  to  her  pros- 
titution itself.  And  she  had  no  tenacity  to  endure  such 
a  life  as  Grantley,  or  her  image  of  Grantley,  made  for  her. 
In  her  headlong  fashion  she  had  already  pronounced  the 
alternatives — death  or  flight. 

And  there  was  the  baby  boy  in  his  helplessness;  and 
there  was  young  Blake  with  his  ready  hot  passion  masked 
by  those  aspirations  of  his,  and  his  fiery  indignation  sec- 
onding and  applauding  the  despair  of  her  own  heart.  For 
Blake  knew  the  truth  now — the  truth  as  Sibylla's  imagin- 
ings made  it ;  and  in  view  of  that  truth  the  thing  his  passion 
urged  him  to  became  a  holy  duty.  His  goddess  must  be 
no  more  misused;  her  misery  must  not  be  allowed  to  en- 
dure. 

Knowing  his  thought  and  what  his  heart  was  toward  her, 
Sibylla  turned  to  him  as  a  child  turns  simply  from  a  hard 
to  a  loving  face.  Here  was  a  life  wanting  her  life,  a  love 
asking  hers.  She  had  always  believed  people  when  they 
said  they  loved  and  wanted  her — why,  she  had  believed 
even  Grantley  himself! — and  was  always  convinced  that 
their  love  for  her  was  all  they  said  it  was.  It  was  her  in- 
stinct to  believe  that.    She  believed  all — aye,  more — about 


128  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

young  Blake  than  he  believed  about  himself,  though  he 
believed  very  much  just  now;  and  she  would  always  have 
people  all  white  or  all  black.  Grantley  was  all  black  now, 
and  Blake  was  very  white,  white  as  snow,  while  he  talked 
of  his  aspirations  and  his  love,  and  tempted  her  to  leave 
all  that  bound  her,  and  to  give  her  life  to  him.  He  tempted 
well,  for  he  offered  not  pleasure,  but  the  power  of  doing 
good  and  bestowing  happiness.  Her  first  natural  love 
seemed  to  have  spent  itself  on  Grantley;  she  had  no  passion 
left,  save  the  passion  of  giving.  It  was  to  this  he  made 
his  appeal;  this  would  be  enough  to  give  him  all  his  way. 
Yet  there  was  the  child.  He  had  not  yet  ventured  on  that 
difficult  uncertain  ground.  That  was  where  the  struggle 
would  be;  it  was  there  that  he  distrusted  the  justice  of  his 
own  demand  on  her,  there  that  his  passion  had  to  drown 
the  inward  voices  of  protest. 

It  might  have  happened  that  Jeremy,  with  his  fresh  love 
and  fresh  ambitions,  would  have  been  a  relief  to  such  a 
position ;  that  his  appeal  both  to  sympathy  and  to  amuse- 
ment would  have  done  something  to  clear  the  atmosphere. 
So  far  as  he  himself  went,  indeed,  he  was  irresistible;  his 
frankness  and  his  confidence  were  not  to  be  denied.  Trust- 
ing in  the  order  of  nature,  he  knew  no  bashfulness;  trusting 
in  himself,  he  had  no  misgivings.  Without  a  doubt  he 
was  right!  They  all  agreed  that  the  old  ideal  of  original 
research  on  a  hundred  a  year  must  be  abandoned,  and  that 
Jeremy  must  become  rich  and  famous  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Though  whether  you  ought  to  forgive  her  in  the  end 
is,  I  must  say,  a  very  difficult  point,"  remarked  Grantley 
with  a  would-be  thoughtful  smile.  "In  cases  of  penitence 
I  myself  favour  forgiveness,  Jeremy." 

"But  there  is  the  revelation  of  her  character,"  suggested 
Sibylla,  taking  the  matter  more  seriously,  or  treating  its 
want  of  seriousness  with  more  tenderness. 


THE  FLINTY  WALL  129 

"I'm  inclined  to  think  the  young  lady's  right  at  present," 
said  Blake.  "What  you  have  to  do  is  to  give  her  ground 
for  changing  her  views — and  to  give  her  mother  ground 
for  changing  hers  too." 

Jeremy  listened  to  them  all  with  engrossed  interest. 
Whatever  their  attitude,  they  all  confirmed  his  view. 

"You  once  spoke  of  a  berth  in  the  City?"  he  said  to 
Grantley. 

"Not  much  fame  there;  but  perhaps  you  may  as  well 
take  things  by  instalments." 

"I  don't  like  it,  you  know.     It's  not  my  line  at  all." 

Blake  came  to  the  rescue.  The  Selfords  drew  their 
money  from  large  and  important  dyeing-works,  although 
Selford  himself  had  retired  from  any  active  share  in  the 
work  of  the  business.  There  was  room  for  scientific  apti- 
tude in  dyeing-works,  Blake  opined  rather  vaguely.  "You 
could  make  chemistry,  for  instance,  subserve  the  needs  of 
commerce,  couldn't  you?" 

"That  really  is  a  good  suggestion,"  said  Jeremy  ap- 
provingly. 

"Capital !"  Grantley  agreed.  "We'll  get  at  Selford  for 
you,  Jeremy;  and,  if  necessary,  we'll  club  together,  and 
send  to  Terra  del  Fuego,  and  buy  Janet  Selford  a  new 
dog." 

"I  begin  to  see  my  way,"  Jeremy  announced. 

Whereat  the  men  laughed,  while  Sibylla  came  round 
and  kissed  him,  laughing  too.  What  a  very  short  time 
ago,  and  she  had  been  even  as  Jeremy,  as  sanguine,  as  con- 
fident, seeing  her  way  as  clearly,  with  just  as  little  war- 
rant of  knowledge! 

"Meanwhile  you  mustn't  mope,  old  chap,"  said  Grant- 
ley. 

"Mope?  I've  no  time  for  moping.  Do  you  think  I 
could  see  this  Selford  to-morrow?" 


130  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  take  to  him,"  laughed  Grantley. 
"But  don't  ask  for  ten  thousand  a  year  all  at  once,  you 
know." 

"I  know  the  world.  When  I  really  want  a  thing,  I  can 
wait  for  it." 

But  it  was  evident  that  he  did  not  mean  to  wait  very 
long.  Grantley  said  ten  thousand  a  year:  a  thousand 
would  seem  riches  to  the  Milldean  rectory  folk. 

"That's  right.  If  you  want  a  thing,  you  must  be  ready 
to  wait  for  it,"  agreed  Grantley,  with  smiling  lips  and  a 
pucker  on  his  brow. 

"So  long  as  there's  any  hope,"  added  Sibylla. 

These  hints  of  underlying  things  went  unheeded  by 
Jeremy,  but  Blake  marked  them.  They  were  becoming 
more  frequent  now  as  the  tension  grew  and  grew. 

"There's  always  a  hope  with  reasonable  people." 

"Opinions  differ  so  much  as  to  what  is  reasonable." 

"Dora's  not  reasonable  at  present,  anyhow." 

Jeremy's  mind  had  not  travelled  beyond  his  own  pre- 
dicament. 

The  contrast  he  pointed,  the  mocking  memories  he 
stirred,  made  his  presence  accentuate  and  embitter  the  strife, 
confirming  Sibylla's  despair,  undermining  even  Grantley's 
obstinate  self-confidence ;  while  to  Blake  his  example,  how- 
ever much  one  might  smile  at  it,  seemed  to  cry,  "Courage !" 
He  who  would  have  the  prize  must  not  shrink  from  the 
struggle. 

That  night  Sibylla  sat  long  by  her  boy's  cot.  Little 
Frank  slept  quietly  (he  had  been  named  after  his  god- 
father, Grantley's  friend,  that  Lord  Caylesham  who  was 
also  the  Fanshaws'  friend),  while  his  mother  fought 
against  the  love  and  the  obligation  that  bound  her 
to  him — a  sad  fight  to  wage.  She  had  some  argu- 
ments not  lacking  speciousness.     To  what  life  would  he 


THE  FLINTY  WALL  131 

grow  up  in  such  a  home  as  theirs!  Look  at  the  life  the 
Courtland  children  led!  Would  not  anything  be  better 
than  that — any  scandal  in  the  past,  any  loss  in  present  and 
future  ?  She  called  to  her  help  too  that  occasional  pang 
which  the  helpless  little  being  gave  her,  he  the  innocent 
cause  and  ignorant  embodiment  of  all  her  perished  hopes. 
Might  not  that  come  oftener?  Might  it  not  grow  and 
grow  till  it  conquered  all  her  love,  and  she  ended  by  hating 
because  she  might  have  loved  so  greatly  ?  Horrible !  Yes, 
but  had  it  not  nearly  come  to  pass  with  one  whom  she  had 
loved  very  greatly  ?  It  could  not  be  called  impossible,  how- 
ever to  be  loathed  the  idea  of  it  might  be.  No,  not  im- 
possible !  Her  husband  was  the  child's  father.  Did  he 
love  him  ?  No,  she  cried — she  had  almost  persuaded  her- 
self that  his  indifference  screened  a  positive  dislike.  And 
if  it  were  not  impossible,  any  desperate  thing  would  be 
better  than  the  chance  of  it.  But  for  Grantley  she  could 
love,  she  could  go  on  loving — the  child.  Then  why  not 
make  an  end  of  her  life  with  Grantley — the  life  that  was 
souring  her  heart  and  turning  all  love  to  bitterness?  Grant- 
ley  would  not  want  the  child,  and,  not  wanting  it,  would 
let  her  have  it.  She  did  not  believe  that  he  would  burden 
himself  with  the  boy  for  the  sake  of  depriving  her  of  him. 
She  admitted  with  a  passing  smile  that  he  had  not  this 
small  spite  fulness — his  vices  were  on  a  larger  scale.  She 
could  go  to  Grantley  and  say  she  must  leave  him.  No  law 
and  no  power  could  prevent  her,  and  she  believed  that  she 
could  take  the  boy  with  her. 

Why  not  do  that?  Do  that,  and  let  honour,  at  least, 
stand  pure  and  unimpeached? 

The  question  brought  her  to  the  issue  she  had  tried  to 
shirk,  to  the  truth  she  had  sought  to  hide.  Her  love  for 
the  boy  was  much,  but  it  was  not  enough,  it  did  not  satisfy. 
Was  it  even  the  greatest  thing  ?    As  it  were  with  a  groan, 


i32  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

her  spirit  answered,  No.  The  answer  could  not  be  denied, 
however  she  might  stand  condemned  by  it.  Of  physical 
passion  she  acquitted  herself — and  now  she  was  in  no  mood 
for  easy  self-acquittal;  but  there  was  the  greater  passion 
for  intercourse  of  soul,  for  union,  for  devotion,  for  aban- 
donment of  the  heart.  These  asked  a  responding  heart; 
they  asked  knowledge,  feelings  grown  to  full  strength,  a 
conscious  will,  an  intellect  adult  and  articulate.  They  could 
be  found  in  full  only  where  she  had  thought  to  find  them 
— in  the  love  of  woman  and  man,  of  fit  man  for  fit  woman, 
and  of  her  for  him.  They  could  not  be  found  in  the  love 
for  her  child.  Christine  Fanshaw  had  asked  her  if  she 
could  not  be  wrapped  up  in  the  baby.  No.  She  could  em- 
brace it  in  her  love,  but  hers  was  too  large  for  its  little  arms 
to  enfold.  She  cried  for  a  wider  field  and  what  seemed 
a  greater  task. 

And  for  what  was  wrong,  distasteful,  disastrous  in  the 
conclusion?  She  had  the  old  answer  for  this.  "It's  not 
my  fault,"  she  said.  It  was  not  her  fault  that  her  love  had 
found  no  answering  love,  had  found  no  sun  to  bloom  in, 
and  had  perished  for  want  of  warmth.  Not  on  her  head 
lay  the  blame.  So  far  as  human  being  can  absolve  human 
being  from  the  commands  of  God  or  of  human  society,  she 
declared  that  by  Grantley's  act  she  stood  absolved.  The 
contract  in  its  true  essence  had  not  been  broken  first  by  her. 

Ah,  why  talk?  Why  argue?  There  were  true  things 
to  be  said,  valid  arguments  to  use.  On  this  she  insisted. 
But  in  the  end  the  imperious  cry  of  her  nature  rang  out  over 
all  of  them  and  drowned  their  feebler  voices.  Come  what 
might,  and  let  the  arguments  be  weak  or  strong,  she  would 
not  for  all  her  life,  that  glorious  life  Heaven  had  given 
her,  beat  her  heart  against  the  flinty  wall. 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

THE    OLIVE    BRANCH 

SUZETTE  BLIGH  was  staying  at  the  Courtlands' 
— that  Suzette  who  had  been  at  Mrs.  Raymore's 
party,  and  was,  according  to  Christine  Fanshaw, 
a  baby  compared  with  Anna  Selford,  although  ten  years 
her  senior.  She  had  neither  father  nor  mother,  and  de- 
pended on  her  brother  for  a  home.  He  had  gone  abroad 
for  a  time,  and  Lady  Harriet  had  taken  her  in,  partly  from 
kindness  (for  Lady  Harriet  had  kind  impulses),  partly 
to  have  somebody  to  grumble  to  when  she  was  feeling  too 
conscientious  to  grumble  to  the  children.  This  did  happen 
sometimes.  None  the  less  the  children  heard  a  good  deal 
of  grumbling,  and  in  Suzette's  opinion  knew  far  too  much 
about  the  state  of  the  household.  They  were  all  girls, 
Lucy,  Sophy,  and  Vera,  and  ranged  in  age  from  thirteen 
to  nine.  They  took  to  Suzette,  and  taught  her  several 
things  about  the  house  before  she  had  been  long  in  it;  and 
she  relieved  Lady  Harriet  of  them  to  a  certain  extent, 
thereby  earning  gratitude  no  less  than  by  her  readiness  to 
listen  to  grumblings.  Tom  was  little  seen  just  now;  he 
came  home  very  late  and  went  out  very  early;  he  never 
met  his  wife;  he  used  just  to  look  in  on  the  children  at 
schoolroom  breakfast,  which  Suzette  had  elected  to  share 
with  them,  Lady  Harriet  taking  the  meal  in  her  own  room. 
It  was  not  a  pleasant  house  to  stay  in,  but  it  was  tolerably 
comfortable,  and  Suzette,  not  asking  too  much  of  life,  was 
content  enough  to  be  there,  could  tell  herself  that  she  was 
of  use,  and  was  happy  in  performing  an  act  of  friendship. 
Of  course    the  question  was  how  long  Lady  Harriet 

11X 


134  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

would  stand  it.  The  little  girls  knew  that  this  was  the 
question;  they  were  just  waiting  for  mamma  to  break  out. 
They  had  not  disliked  their  mother  in  the  past;  occa- 
sional fits  of  temper  are  not  what  children  hate  most.  They 
endure  them,  hoping  for  better  times,  or  contrive  to  be  out 
of  the  way  when  the  tempest  arises.  Cracks  with  any  im- 
plement that  came  handy  were  the  order  of  the  day  when 
the  tempest  had  risen;  but  on  calm  days  Lady  Harriet  had 
been  carelessly  indulgent,  and,  in  her  way,  affectionate  to 
the  girls.  But  now  the  calm  days  grew  rarer,  the  tem- 
pests more  frequent  and  violent.  Fear  grew,  love  waned, 
hatred  was  on  its  way  to  their  hearts.  They  had  never 
disliked  their  father;  though  they  had  no  great  respect  for 
him,  they  loved  him.  They  regarded  him  with  compas- 
sionate sympathy,  as  the  person  on  whom  most  of  the 
cracks  fell;  and  they  quite  understood  why  he  wanted  to 
keep  out  of  the  way.  This  was  a  bond  of  union.  They 
even  had  vague  suspicions  as  to  where  he  went  in  order 
to  get  out  of  the  way.  They  had  listened  to  their  mother's 
grumbling;  they  had  listened  to  the  talk  of  the  servants 
too.  Suzette  was  no  check  on  their  speculations ;  they  liked 
her  very  much,  but  they  were  not  in  the  least  in  awe  of 
her. 

"Will  you  take  us  for  a  walk  this  afternoon,  Miss 
Bligh?"  asked  Sophy,  at  schoolroom  breakfast  on  Sunday. 
"Because  Garrett  says  mamma's  not  well  to-day,  and  we'd 
better  not  go  near  her — she's  going  to  stay  in  her  own 
room  till  tea-time." 

"Of  course  I  will,  dears,"  said  Suzette  Bligh. 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  mamma,  really," 
declared  Lucy — "only  she's  in  an  awful  fury.  I  met  Gar- 
rett coming  out  of  her  room,  and  she  looked  frightened 
to  death." 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  know  why !"  piped  up  Vera's  youth- 


THE  OLIVE  BRANCH  135 

ful  voice  in  accents  of  triumph.  "I  do !  I  was  in  the  hall, 
just  behind  the  curtain  of  the  archway,  and  I  heard  Peters 
tell  the  new  footman.  Papa  was  expected  last  night,  and 
mamma  had  left  orders  that  she  should  be  told  when  he 
came  in.     But  he  didn't " 

"'We  know  all  that,  Vera,"  Sophy  interrupted,  contemp- 
tuously. "He  sent  word  that  he'd  been  called  out  of  town 
and  wouldn't  be  back  till  Monday." 

"And  the  message  didn't  get  here  till  twelve  o'clock. 
Fancy,  Miss  Bligh!" 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you're  going  to  take  us  to  church,  and 
not  mamma,  Miss  Bligh." 

"I  hope  she  won't  send  for  any  of  us  about  anything!" 

"I  hope  she  won't  send  for  me,  anyhow,"  said  Vera, 
"because  I  haven't  done  my  French,  and " 

"Then  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  you  if  you  have  to  go  to 
her,"  said  Lucy,  in  a  manner  far  from  comforting. 

Lady  Harriet  was  by  way  of  teaching  the  children 
French,  and  had  not  endeared  the  language  to  them. 

"I  wonder  what  called  papa  away!"  mused  Sophy. 

"Now,  Sophy,  that's  no  business  of  yours,"  said  poor 
Suzette,  endeavouring  to  do  good.  "You've  no  business 
to " 

"Well,  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  it,  Miss  Bligh.  Papa's 
always  being  called  away  now." 

"Especially  when  mamma's " 

"I  can't  listen  to  any  more,  dears.  Does  the  vicar  or 
the  curate  preach  in  the  morning,  Lucy  dear?" 

"Don't  know,  Miss  Bligh.  I  say,  Vera,  suppose  you 
go  and  ask  mamma  to  let  us  have  some  of  that  strawberry 
jam  at  tea." 

"Yes,  let's  make  her  go,"  Sophy  chimed  in  gleefully. 

"You  may  do  anything  you  like,"  declared  Vera,  "but 
you  can't  make  me  go — not  if  you  kill  me,  you  can't!" 


136  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

The  two  elder  girls  giggled  merrily  at  her  panic. 

Poor  Suzette  was  rather  in  despair  about  these  children 
— not  because  they  were  unhappy.  On  the  whole  they 
had  not  been  very  unhappy.  Their  mother's  humours,  if 
alarming,  were  also  the  cause  of  much  excitement.  Their 
father's  plight,  if  sorrowful,  was  by  no  means  wanting  in 
the  comic  aspect.  The  suspense  in  which  they  waited  to 
see  how  long  Lady  Harriet  would  stand  it  had  a  distinct 
spice  of  pleasure  in  it.  But  the  pity  of  it  all !  Suzette's 
training,  no  less  than  her  fidelity  to  Lady  Harriet,  inclined 
her  to  lay  far  the  heavier  blame  on  Tom  Courtland.  But 
she  did  have  a  notion  that  Lady  Harriet  must  be  very 
trying — and  the  more  she  listened  to  the  children  the  more 
that  idea  grew.  And,  between  them,  the  mother  and  the 
father  were  responsible  for  such  a  childhood  as  this.  The 
children  were  not  bad  girls,  she  thought,  but  they  were 
in  danger  of  being  coarsened  and  demoralised;  they  were 
learning  to  laugh  where  they  had  better  have  cried.  It 
was  Suzette's  way  to  be  rather  easily  shocked,  and  she  was 
very  much  shocked  at  this. 

They  were  just  starting  for  their  afternoon  walk  when 
John  Fanshaw  arrived  and  found  them  all  in  the  hall. 
He  was  an  old  friend — Vera's  godfather — and  was  warm- 
ly welcomed.  John  was  very  cheery  to-day;  he  joked  with 
the  children,  and  paid  Suzette  Bligh  a  compliment.  Then 
Vera  wanted  to  know  why  he  had  called : 

"Because  papa's  not  at  home,  you  know." 

"Never  mind  that,  puss.  I've  come  to  see  your  mam- 
ma. 

"You've  come  to  see  mamma!"  exclaimed  Lucy. 

Glances  were  exchanged  between  the  three — humorous 
excited  glances;  admiring  amused  eyes  turned  to  John  Fan- 
shaw. Here  was  the  man  who  was  going  to  enter  the  lion's 
den! 


THE  OLIVE  BRANCH  137 

"Shall  we  start,  dears?"  suggested  Suzette  Bligh  appre- 
hensively. 

No  notice  was  taken.  Sophy  gave  John  a  direct  and 
friendly  warning. 

"You'd  better  look  out,  you  know,"  she  said;  "mamma's 
just  furious  because  papa's  not  come  back." 

"But  it's  not  my  fault,  missie,"  said  John.  "She  can't 
put  me  in  the  corner  for  it." 

"Well,  if  you  happen  to  be  there — "  began  Lucy,  with 
an  air  of  experience. 

"We  must  really  start,  Lucy  dear,"  urged  Suzette. 

"What  have  you  come  to  see  mamma  about?"  asked 
Vera,  shrilly. 

"To  find  out  how  to  keep  little  girls  in  order,"  answered 
John,  facetiously  rebuking  curiosity. 

"I  expect  you've  come  about  papa,"  observed  Vera,  with 
disconcerting  calmness  and  an  obvious  contempt  for  his 
joke. 

"I'm  going  to  start,  anyhow,"  declared  poor  Suzette. 
"Come  along,  dears,  do !" 

"Well,  if  there's  a  great  row,  Garrett'll  hear  some  of  it 
and  tell  us,"  said  Sophy,  consoling  herself  and  her  sisters 
as  they  reluctantly  walked  away  from  the  centre  of  interest. 

John  Fanshaw's  happiness  was  with  him  still — the  hap- 
piness which  Caylesham's  cheque  had  brought.  It  was  not 
banked  yet,  but  it  would  be  to-morrow;  and  in  the  last  two 
days  John  had  taken  steps  to  reassure  everybody,  to  tell 
everybody  that  they  would  be  paid  without  question  or 
difficulty,  to  scatter  the  cloud  of  gossip  and  suspicion  which 
had  gathered  round  his  credit  in  the  City.  It  was  now 
quite  understood  that  John's  firm  had  weathered  any 
trouble  which  had  threatened  it,  and  could  be  trusted  and 
fully  relied  on  again.  Hence  John's  happy  mind,  and,  a 
result  of  the  happy  mind,  a  sanguine  and  eager  wish  to  ef- 


i38  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

feet  some  good,  to  bring  about  some  sort  of  reconciliation 
and  a  modus  vivendi,  in  the  Courtland  family.  His  hopes 
were  not  visionary  or  unreasonable:  he  did  not  expect  to 
establish  romantic  bliss  there ;  a  modus  vivendi  commended 
itself  to  him  as  the  best  way  of  expressing  what  he  was  go- 
ing to  suggest  to  Lady  Harriet.  In  this  flush  of  happy  and 
benevolent  feeling  he  was  really  glad  that  he  had  consented 
to  undertake  the  embassy. 

Lady  Harriet  liked  John  Fanshaw.  She  called  him 
John  and,  though  he  did  not  quite  venture  to  reciprocate 
the  familiarity,  he  felt  that  it  gave  him  a  position  in  deal- 
ing with  her.  Also  he  thought  her  a  very  handsome  wom- 
an ;  and,  since  she  was  aware  of  this,  there  was  another  de- 
sirable element  in  their  acquaintance.  And  he  thought 
that  he  knew  how  to  manage  women — he  was  sure  he 
would  not  have  made  such  a  bad  job  of  it  as  poor  Tom  had. 
So  he  went  in  without  any  fear,  and  found  justification  in 
the  cordiality  of  his  welcome.  Indeed  the  welcome  was 
too  cordial,  inasmuch  as  it  was  based  on  an  erroneous  no- 
tion. 

"You're  the  very  man  of  all  men  I  wanted  to  see!  I 
was  thinking  of  sending  for  you.  Come  and  sit  down, 
John,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"But  I  know  all  about  it,"  he  protested,  "and  I  want  to 
have  a  talk  to  you." 

"Nobody  can  know  but  me;  and  I  believe  you're  the  best 
friend  I  have.  I  want  to  tell  you  everything,  and  take 
your  advice  how  I'm  to  act." 

Evidently  she  did  not  suppose  that  he  was  in  any  sense 
an  ambassador  from  her  husband.  He  was  to  be  her 
friend.  John  found  it  difficult  to  correct  this  mistake  of 
hers. 

"I'm  at  the  end  of  my  patience,"  she  said  solemnly. 
"I'm  sure  anybody  would  be.  You  know  what's  happening 
as  well  as  I  do,  and  I  intend  to  put  an  end  to  it." 


THE  OLIVE  BRANCH  139 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!  I — well,  I'm  here  just  to  prevent 
you  from  saying  that." 

"To  prevent  me?  You  do  know  what's  happening? 
Do  you  know  he's  staying  away  from  home  again  ?  What 
do  the  servants  think?  What  must  the  children  begin  to 
think?    Am  I  to  be  exposed  to  that ?" 

She  looked  very  handsome  and  spirited,  with  just  the 
right  amount  of  colour  in  her  cheeks  and  an  animated 
sparkle  in  her  eyes. 

"Why,  I  could  name  the  woman  !"  she  exclaimed.  "And 
so  could  you,  I  daresay?" 

"Don't  make  too  much  of  it,"  he  urged.  "We're  not 
children.  He  doesn't  really  care  about  the  woman.  It's 
only  because  he's  unhappy." 

"And  who's  fault  is  it  he's  unhappy?" 

"And  because  of  that  he's  being  foolish — wasting  all 
his  money  too,  I'm  afraid." 

"Oh,  I've  got  my  settlement.  I  shall  be  all  right  in 
case  of  proceedings." 

"Now  pray  don't  think  of  proceedings,  Lady  Harriet." 

"Not  think  of  them !  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  them. 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  how  to  set  about  it." 

"But  it  would  ruin  his  career;  it  would  destroy  his  pub- 
lic position." 

"I  can't  help  that.  He  should  have  thought  of  that  for 
himself." 

"And  then  think  of  the  girls!" 

"Anything  would  be  better  than  going  on  like  this — 
yes,  better  for  them  too!" 

John  saw  that  he  must  face  an  explanation  of  his  em- 
bassy.    He  got  up  and  stood  on  the  hearthrug. 

"I'm  here  as  the  friend  of  you  both,"  he  began. 

The  colour  and  the  sparkle  both  grew  brighter. 

"Oh,  are  you?"  said  Lady  Harriet. 


i4o  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"It  comes  to  this.  Tom's  friends — I  and  one  or  two 
more — have  been  speaking  seriously  to  him.  We've  got 
him  to  say  that  he's  ready  to  drop — to  drop  what  you  very 
properly  object  to — and  to  make  another  effort  to  find  a — 
a  modus  vivendi. 

"I'm  glad  he's  got  so  much  decent  feeling!  Only  it 
comes  rather  late.    He  wants  me  to  forgive  him,  does  he?" 

"I  don't  think  we  can  put  it  quite  so  simply  as  that." 
John  risked  a  timid  smile.  "There  must  be  a  give-and- 
take,  Lady  Harriet — a  give-and-take,  you  know." 

"Well?"  She  was  relapsing  into  that  dangerous  still- 
ness of  hers.  She  was  very  quiet,  but  her  eyes  shone  very 
bright.  Tom  Courtland  would  have  known  the  signs,  so 
would  the  girls. 

"We've  got  him  to  say  what  I've  told  you;  but  there 
must  be  something  from  your  side." 

"What  am  I  to  do,  John?"  she  asked,  with  deceptive 
meekness. 

"Well,  I  think  you  might — well — er — express  some  re- 
gret that — that  things  haven't  gone  more  harmoniously  at 
home.    You  might  hold  out  an  olive  branch,  you  know." 

"Express  regret?" 

"Don't  stand  on  a  point  of  pride  now.  Haven't  you 
sometimes  been — well,  a  little  exacting — a  little  quick- 
tempered?" 

"Oh,  you're  in  that  old  story,  are  you?  Quick-tem- 
pered Suppose  I  am!  Haven't  I  enough  to  make  me 
quick-tempered?" 

"Yes,  now  you  have.     But  what  about  the  beginning?" 

"Do  you  mean  it  was  my  fault  in  the  beginning?" 

"Don't  you  think  so  yourself?     Partly,  at  all  events?" 

Lady  Harriet  took  up  a  tortoise-shell  paper-knife  and 
played  with  it.  Her  eyes  were  set  hard  on  John,  who  did 
not  like  the  expression  in  them.  He  became  less  glad  that 
he  had  undertaken  the  embassy. 


THE    OLIVE   BRANCH  141 

"May  a  man  desert  and  deceive  his  wife  because  she's  a 
little  quick-tempered?" 

"No,  no,  of  course  not;  that's  absurd." 

"It's  what  you're  saying,  isn't  it?" 

"We  must  look  at  it  as  men  and  women  of  the  world." 

"I  look  at  it  as  a  wife  and  a  mother.  Do  you  mean  to 
say  it  was  my  fault  in  the  beginning?" 

John  was  losing  patience;  he  saw  that  some  plain  speak- 
ing would  be  necessary,  but  his  want  of  patience  made  it 
hard  for  him  to  do  the  plain  speaking  wisely. 

"Well,  yes,  I  do,"  he  said.  "In  the  beginning,  you 
know.  Tom's  a  good-natured  fellow,  and  he  was  very 
fond  of  you.  But  you — well,  you  didn't  make  his  home 
pleasant  to  him;  and  if  a  man's  home  isn't  pleasant,  you 
know  what's  likely  to  happen." 

"And  you're  the  friend  I  meant  to  send  for!" 

"I  am  your  friend — that's  why  I  venture  to  speak  to  you 
freely.  There's  no  hope  unless  you  both  realise  where 
you've  been  wrong.  Tom  acknowledges  his  fault  and  is 
ready  to  change  his  ways.  But  you  must  acknowledge 
yours  and  change  too." 

"What  is  my  fault?" 

John  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room. 

"I  must  let  her  have  it,"  he  decided,  as  he  came  back  to 
the  hearthrug. 

"You  make  everybody  afraid  of  you  with  your  lamenta- 
ble fits  of  temper,"  he  told  her.  "Tom's  afraid  of  you, 
and  afraid  of  what  you  might  drive  him  into.  Your  chil- 
dren are  afraid  of  you.  Everybody's  afraid  of  you.  You 
make  the  house  impossible  to  live  in.  You're  even  violent 
sometimes,  I'm  afraid,  Lady  Harriet." 

If  breaking  a  paper-knife  in  two  be  violence,  she  was 
violent  then.  She  threw  the  pieces  down  on  the  table 
angrily. 


H2  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"How  dare  you  come  to  me  and  talk  like  this?  I've 
done  nothing;  I've  nothing  to  blame  myself  for.  What 
I've  had  to  put  up  with  would  have  spoilt  anybody's  tem- 
per! Express  regret ?  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  If 
that's  what  you  came  to  ask,  you  can  take  your  answer  and 
go." 

She  was  working  herself  up  to  the  full  tide  of  her  rage. 
John's  undertaking  was  quite  hopeless  now,  but  he  would 
not  recognise  it  yet;  he  determined  to  "let  her  have  it"  a 
little  more  still. 

"Look  at  that!"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  broken  paper- 
knife.  "Just  try  to  think  what  that — that  sort  of  thing — 
means!  What  man  can  be  expected  to  stand  that?  The 
state  of  things  which  has  arisen  is  your  fault.  You've  made 
no  effort  to  govern  your  temper.  You're  reaping  the  fruit 
of  what  you've  sown.  If  poor  Tom  had  shown  more  firm- 
ness it  might  have  been  better." 

"You'd  have  shown  more  firmness,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  I  should;  and  I  believe  it  would  have  done  some 
good.  You  may  suppose  it  gives  me  great  pain  to  speak 
like  this,  but  really  it's  the  only  way.  Unless  you  realise 
how  greatly  you've  been  to  blame,  unless  you  determine  to 
conquer  this  deplorable  feeling,  there's  no  hope  of  doing 
any  good." 

She  sat  quiet  for  a  moment  or  two  longer  with  shining 
eyes,  while  John,  now  confident  again  and  very  masculine, 
developed  the  subject  of  the  real  truth  about  her.  Then 
she  broke  out : 

"You  fool!"  she  said.  "You  silly  fool!  You  come  to 
me  with  this  nonsense !  You  tell  me  you'd  have  shown 
more  firmness !  You  tell  me  it's  my  fault  Tom's  gone  off 
after  this  creature!  Much  you  know  about  it  all!  Won- 
derfully wise  you  are!  Leave  other  men's  wives  alone, 
and  go  back  and  look  after  your  own,  John." 


THE  OLIVE  BRANCH  143 

"There's  nothing  that  I'm  aware  of  wrong  in  my  house, 

Lady  Harriet.     We  needn't  bring  that  into  the  question." 

"Oh,  we  needn't,  needn't  we?     And  there  never  was 

anything  wrong,  I  suppose?     I'm  such  a  bad  wife,  am  I? 

Other  men  have  bad  wives  too." 

"Do  you  attach  any  particular  meaning  to  that?"  he 
asked  coldly,  but  rather  uneasily. 

"Do  I  attach — ?  Oh,  what  an  idiot  you  are!  You  to 
come  and  lecture  me  as  if  I  was  a  child!  I  may  be  any- 
thing you  like,  but  I've  never  been  what  your  wife  was, 
John  Fanshaw." 

He  turned  on  her  quickly. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 
"That's  my  affair." 

"No,  it  isn't.    You've  dared  to  hint " 

"Oh,  I  hint  nothing  I  don't  know !" 
"You  shall  give  me  an  explanation  of  those  words.     'I 
insist  upon  that." 

"You'd  better  not,"  she  laughed  maliciously. 
John  was  moved  beyond  self-control.     He  caught  her 
by  the  wrist.     She  rose  and  stood  facing  him,  her  breath 
coming  quick.     She  was  in  a  fury  that  robbed  her  of  all 
judgment  and  all  mercy;  but  she  had  no  fear  of  him. 
"You  shall  withdraw  those  words  or  explain  them!" 
"Ask  Christine  to  explain  them,"  she  sneered.     "What 
a  fool  you  are !    Here's  a  man  to  give  lectures  on  the  man- 
agement of  wives,  when  his  own  wife "     She  broke 

off  laughing  again. 

"You  shall  tell  me  what  you  mean !" 
"Dear  me,  you  can't  guess?  You've  turned  very  dull, 
John.  Nevermind!  Don't  make  too  much  of  it!  Per- 
haps you  were  quick-tempered?  Perhaps  you  didn't  make 
her  home  pleasant?  And  if  a  woman's  home  isn't  pleasant 
— well,  you  know  what's  likely  to  happen,  don't  you?" 


144  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Perspiration  was  on  John  Fanshaw's  brow.  He  pressed 
her  wrist  hard. 

"You  she-devil !"  he  said.  "Tell  me  what  you  mean, 
I  say!" 

Oh,  ask  Christine !  And  if  she  won't  tell  you,  I  ad- 
vise you  to  apply  to  Frank  Caylesham,  John." 

"Is  that  true?" 

"Yes,  it  is.    Don't  break  my  wrist." 

"Caylesham!" 

He  held  her  wrist  a  moment  longer,  then  dropped  it, 
and  looked  aimlessly  round  the  room. 

She  rubbed  her  wrist  and  glared  at  him  with  sullen  eyes, 
her  fury  dying  down  into  a  malicious  rancour. 

"There,  that's  what  you  get  from  your  meddling  and 
your  preaching !"  she  said.  "I  never  meant  to  give  Chris- 
tine away,  I  never  wanted  to.  It's  your  doing;  you  made 
me  angry,  and  I  hit  out  at  you  where  I  could.  I  wish  to 
God  you  had  never  come  here,  John!  Christine's  one  of 
the  few  women  who  are  friendly  to  me,  and  now  I've — 
But  you've  yourself  to  thank  for  it." 

He  sank  slowly  into  a  chair;  she  heard  him  mutter 
"Caylesham!"  again. 

"If  you  know  I've  a  quick  temper,  why  do  you  exas- 
perate me?  You  exasperate  me,  and  then  I  do  a  thing 
like  that!  Oh,  I'm  not  thinking  of  you;  I'm  thinking  of 
poor  Christine.  I  hate  myself  now,  and  that's  your  doing 
too!" 

She  flung  herself  into  her  chair  and  began  to  sob  tem- 
pestuously.   John  stared  past  her  to  the  wall. 

"It's  just  what  Tom's  always  done,"  she  moaned 
through  her  sobs — "making  me  lose  my  temper,  and  say 
something,  and  then — "     Her  words  became  inarticulate. 

Presently  her  sobs  ceased;  her  face  grew  hard  and  set 
again. 


THE    OLIVE    RRANCH  145 

"Well,  are  you  going  to  sit  there  all  day?"  she  asked. 
"Is  it  so  pleasant  that  you  want  to  stay?  Do  you  still 
think  you  can  teach  me  the  error  of  my  ways?" 

From  the  first  moment  John  Fanshaw  had  not  doubted 
the  truth  of  what  she  said.  Things  forced  out  by  passion 
in  that  way  were  true.  Her  stormy  remorse  was  added 
proof — a  remorse  which  did  not  even  attempt  retraction 
or  evasion.  And  his  memory  got  to  work.  He  knew  now 
why  Christine  had  been  so  reluctant  to  go  to  Caylesham. 
There  were  things  back  in  the  past  too,  which  now  became 
intelligible — how  that  acquaintance  had  grown  and  grown, 
how  constant  the  companionship  had  been,  one  or  two  lit- 
tle things  which  had  seemed  odd,  and  then  how  there  had 
been  a  sudden  end,  and  they  had  come  to  see  very  little 
of  Caylesham,  how  neither  of  them  had  seen  him  for  a 
long  while,  till  John  had  sent  Christine  to  borrow  fifteen 
thousand  pounds. 

"For  God's  sake,  go  !"  she  cried. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  slowly,  and  her  fascinated  eyes 
watched  his  face.  His  eyes  were  dull,  and  his  face  seemed 
to  have  gone  gray.     He  asked  her  one  question : 

"How  long  ago?" 

"Oh,  all  over  years  ago,"  she  answered,  with  an  inpa- 
tient groan,  drumming  her  fingers  on  the  arms  of  her 
chair. 

He  nodded  his  head  in  a  thoughtful  way. 

"Good-bye,  Lady  Harriet,"  he  said. 

"Good-bye,  John."  Suddenly  she  sprang  up.  "Stop! 
What  are  you  going  to  say  to  Christine?" 

He  looked  bewildered  still. 

"I  don't  know.  Oh,  really  I  don't  know!  My  God,  I 
never  had  any  idea  of  this,  and  I  don't  know!  I  can't — 
can't  realise  it  all,  you  know — And  Caylesham  too !" 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  her  I  told  you  ?" 


146  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do,  Lady  Harriet — I 
don't  know." 

"Ah!" 

With  a  cry  of  exasperation  she  turned  away  and  sat 
down  in  her  chair  again. 

"Good-bye,"  he  muttered,  and  slouched  awkwardly  out 
of  the  room. 

She  sat  on  where  she  was,  very  still,  frowning,  her  hand 
holding  her  chin,  only  her  restless  eyes  roving  about  the 
room.  She  was  like  some  handsome,  fierce,  caged  beast. 
There  she  sat  for  close  on  an  hour,  thinking  of  what  she 
was  and  of  what  she  had  done — of  how  he  had  shown  her 
the  picture  of  herself,  and  of  how,  from  malice  and  in  her 
wrath,  she  had  betrayed  Christine.  Once  only  in  all  this 
time  her  lips  moved ;  they  moved  to  mutter : 

"What  a  cursed  woman  I  am!" 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

IMAGES    AND    THEIR    WORK 

BY  this  time  young  Walter  Blake  had  not  only  clear- 
ly determined  what  he  wanted  and  meant  to  do ;  he 
had  also  convinced  himself  of  his  wisdom  and  cour- 
age in  wanting  and  meaning  to  do  it.  He  was  not  blind, 
he  declared,  to  the  disagreeable  and  distressing  incidents. 
There  were  painful  features.  There  would  be  a  scandal, 
and  there  would  be  an  awkward  and  uncomfortable  pe- 
riod— a  provisional  period  before  life  settled  down  on  its 
new  and  true  lines.  That  was  inevitable,  since  this  case — 
the  case  of  himself  and  Sibylla — was  exceptional,  whereas 
laws  and  customs  were  made  for  the  ordinary  cases.  He 
did  not  condemn  the  laws  and  customs  wholesale,  but  he 
was  capable  of  seeing  when  a  case  was  exceptional,  and  he 
had  the  wisdom  and  the  courage  to  act  on  what  he  per- 
ceived. He  even  admitted  that  very  few  cases  were  really 
exceptional,  and  took  the  more  credit  for  perceiving  that 
this  one  really  was.  He  did  not  take  Grantley  into  ac- 
count at  all,  neither  what  he  was  nor  what  he  might  do. 
Grantley  seemed  to  him  negligible.  He  confined  his  con- 
sideration to  Sibylla  and  himself — and  the  exceptional  na- 
ture of  the  case  was  obvious.  He  was  a  prey  to  his  ready 
emotions  and  to  his  facile  exaltation.  Desires  masquer- 
aded as  reasons,  and  untempered  impulses  wore  the  decent 
cloak  of  a  high  resolve.  If  he  could  have  put  the  case  like 
that  to  himself,  it  might  not  have  seemed  so  plainly  ex- 
ceptional. 

He  was  never  more  convinced  of  his  wisdom  and  cour- 
age than  when  he  listened  to  Caylesham's  conversation. 

147 


148  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

They  were  racecourse  and  club  acquaintances,  and  had 
lunched  together  at  Caylesham's  flat  on  the  Sunday  on 
which  John  Fanshaw  went  to  Lady  Harriet's  house  in  or- 
der to  show  her  the  error  of  her  ways.  Blake  glowed  with 
virtue  as  he  listened  to  his  friend's  earthy  views  and  meas- 
ured his  friend's  degraded  standards  against  his  own. 

"The  one  duty,"  said  Caylesham,  somewhat  circum- 
scribing the  domain  of  morality,  as  his  habit  was,  "is  to 
avoid  a  row.  Don't  get  the  woman  into  a  scrape."  From 
gossiping  about  Tom  Courtland  they  had  drifted  into  dis- 
cussing the  converse  case.  "That  really  sums  it  all  up,  you 
know."  It  was  a  chilly  day,  and  he  warmed  himself  lux- 
uriously before  the  fire.  "I  don't  set  myself  up  as  a  pat- 
tern to  the  youth,  but  I've  never  done  that,  anyhow." 

Virtuous  Blake  would  have  liked  to  rehearse  to  him  all 
the  evil  things  he  had  done — the  meanness,  the  hypocrisy, 
the  degradation  he  had  caused  and  shared;  but  it  is  not 
possible  to  speak  quite  so  plainly  to  one's  friends. 

"Yes,  that's  the  gospel,"  he  said  sarcastically.  "Avoid 
a  row.     Nothing  else  matters,  does  it?" 

"Nothing  else  matters  in  the  end,  I  mean,"  smiled 
Caylesham,  good-naturedly  conscious  of  the  sarcasm  and 
rather  amused  at  it.  "As  long  as  there's  no  row,  things 
settle  down  again,  you  see.  But  if  there's  a  row,  see  where 
you're  left!  Look  what  youVe  got  on  your  hands,  by 
Jove!  And  the  women  don't  want  a  row  either,  really, 
you  know.  They  may  talk  as  if  they  did — in  fact  they're 
rather  fond  of  talking  as  if  they  did;  and  they  may  think 
they  do  sometimes.  But  when  it  comes  to  the  point,  they 
don't.  And  what's  more,  they  don't  easily  forgive  a  man 
who  gets  them  into  a  row.  It  means  too  much  to  them, 
too  much  by  a  deal,  Blake." 

"And  what  does  it  mean  when  there's  no  row?" 

"Oh,  well,  there,  of  course,  in  a  certain  sense  you  have 


IMAGES  AND  THEIR  WORK  149 

me,"  Caylesham  admitted  with  a  candid  smile.  "If  you 
like  to  take  the  moral  line,  you  do  have  me,  of  course.  I 
was  speaking  of  the  world  as  we  know  it;  and  I  don't  sup- 
pose it's  ever  been  particularly  different.  Not  in  my  time 
anyhow,  I  can  answer  for  that." 

"You're  wrong,  Caylesham,  wrong  all  through.  If  the 
thing  has  come  to  such  a  point,  the  only  honest  thing  is  to 
see  it  through,  to  face  it,  to  undo  the  mistake,  to  put  things 
where  they  ought  to  have  been  from  the  beginning." 

"Capital!     And  how  are  you  going  to  do  it?" 

"There's  only  one  way  of  doing  it." 

Caylesham's  smile  broadened;  he  pulled  his  long  mous- 
tache delicately  as  he  said: 

"Bolt?" 

Blake  nodded  sharply. 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy!" 

He  laughed  in  a  gentle  comfortable  way,  and  drew  his 
coat  right  up  into  the  small  of  his  back. 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy!"  he  murmured  again. 

Nothing  could  have  made  Walter  Blake  feel  more  vir- 
tuous and  more  courageous. 

"The  only  honest  and  honourable  thing,"  he  insisted — 
"the  only  self-respecting  thing  for  both." 

"You  convert  the  world  to  that,  and  I'll  think  about  it." 

"What  do  I  care  about  the  world?  It's  enough  for  me 
to  know  what  I  think  and  feel  about  it.  And  I've  no  shad- 
ow of  doubt." 

His  face  flushed  a  little  and  he  spoke  rather  heatedly. 

"I  wouldn't  interfere  with  your  convictions  for  the 
world,  and,  as  I'm  a  bachelor,  I  don't  mind  them."  He 
was  looking  at  Blake  rather  keenly  now,  wondering  what 
made  the  young  man  take  the  subject  so  much  to  heart. 
"But  if  I  were  you  I'd  keep  them  in  the  theoretical  stage, 
I  think." 


150  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

He  laughed  again,  and  turned  to  light  a  cigar.  Blake 
was  smoking  too,  one  cigarette  after  another,  quickly  and 
nervously.  Caylesham  looked  down  on  him  with  a  good- 
humoured  smile.  He  liked  young  Blake  in  a  half-con- 
temptuous fashion,  and  would  have  been  sorry  to  see  him 
make  a  fool  of  himself  out  and  out. 

"I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  any  questions,"  he  said, 
"though  I  may  have  an  idea  about  you  in  my  head.  But 
I'm  pretty  nearly  twenty  years  older  than  you,  I  fancy,  and 
I've  knocked  about  a  good  bit,  and  I'll  tell  you  one  or  two 
plain  truths.  When  you  talk  like  that,  you  assume  that 
these  things  last.  Well,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  they  don't. 
I  don't  say  that's  nice,  or  amiable,  or  elevated,  or  anything 
else.  I  didn't  make  human  nature,  and  I  don't  particularly 
admire  it.  But  there  it  is — in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  you 
know.  And  if  you  think  you  know  a  case  that's  the 
tenth " 

This  was  exactly  what  Blake  was  sure  he  did  know. 

"Yes,  what  then?"  he  asked  defiantly. 

"Well,"  answered  Caylesham  slowly,  "you  be  jolly  sure 
first  before  you  act  on  that  impression.  You  be  jolly  well 
sure  first — that's  all."  He  paused  and  laughed.  "That's 
not  moral  advice,  or  I  wouldn't  set  up  to  give  it.  But  it's 
a  prudential  consideration." 

"And  if  you  are  sure?" 

"Sure  for  both,  I  mean,  you  know." 

"Yes,  sure  for  both." 

"Well,  then  you're  in  such  a  bad  way  that  you'd  better 
pack  up  and  go  to  the  Himalayas  or  somewhere  like  that 
without  an  hour's  delay,  because  nothing  else'll  save  you, 
you  know." 

Blake  laughed  rather  contemptuously. 

"After  all,  there  have  been  cases " 

"Perhaps — but  I  don't  like  such  long  odds." 


IMAGES  AND  THEIR  WORK  151 

"Well,  we've  had  your  gospel.  Now  let's  hear  how  it's 
worked  in  your  own  case.  Are  you  satisfied  with  that, 
Caylesham?" 

He  spoke  with  a  sneer  that  did  not  escape  Caylesham's 
notice.     It  drew  another  smile  from  him. 

"That's  a  home  question — I  didn't  question  you  as 
straight  as  that.  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I  won't  pretend  to 
feel  what  I  don't  feel;  I'll  tell  you  as  truly  as  I  can."  He 
paused  a  moment.  "I've  had  lots  of  fun,"  he  went  on. 
"I've  always  had  plenty  of  money ;  I've  never  had  any  work 
to  do;  and  I  took  my  fun — lots  of  it.  I  didn't  expect  to 
get  it  for  nothing,  and  I  haven't  got  it  for  nothing.  Some- 
times I  got  it  cheap,  and  sometimes,  one  way  and  another, 
it  mounted  to  a  very  stiff  figure.  But  I  didn't  shirk  settling 
day;  and  if  there  are  any  more  settling  days,  I  won't  shirk 
them  if  I  can  help  it.  I  don't  think  I've  got  anything  to 
complain  about."  He  put  his  cigar  back  into  his  mouth. 
"No,  I  don't  think  I  have,"  he  ended,  twisting  the  cigar 
between  his  teeth. 

What  a  contempt  for  him  young  Blake  had !  Was  ever 
man  so  ignorant  of  his  true  self?  Was  ever  man  so  sunk 
in  degradation  and  so  utterly  unconscious  of  it?  Cayles- 
ham could  look  back  on  a  life  spent  as  his  had  been — could 
look  back  from  the  middle-age  to  which  he  had  now  come, 
and  find  nothing  much  amiss  with  it !  Blake  surveyed  his 
grovelling  form  from  high  pedestals  of  courage  and  of 
wisdom — absolutely  of  virtue  pure  and  undefiled. 

"Nothing  very  ideal  about  that!" 

"Good  Lord,  no!    You  wanted  the  truth,  didn't  you?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  thought  like  that  once — I  was  con- 
tented with  that  once." 

"You  certainly  used  to  give  the  impression  of  bearing 
up  under  it,"  smiled  Caylesham.  "But  things  are  changed 
now,  are  they?" 


152  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Yes,  thank  God!  Imagine  going  on  like  that  all  your 
life!" 

Caylesham  threw  himself  into  a  chair  with  a  hearty 
laugh. 

"Now  weVe  gone  just  as  far  as  we  can  with  discretion/* 
he  declared. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Blake  rather  an- 
grily. 

"Well,  I'm  not  an  idiot,  am  I,  as  well  as  a  moral  de- 
formity?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

"Yes  but  I  know  what  you've  been  talking  about,  Blake. 
I  know  it  all  except  one  thing — and  that  I  don't  propose 
to  ask." 

Blake  rose  with  a  sulky  air  and  tossed  away  the  end  of 
his  cigarette. 

"And  what's  that?" 

"The  lady's  name,  my  boy,"  said  Caylesham  placidly. 

This  talk  was  fuel  to  Blake's  flame.  It  showed  him  the 
alternative — the  only  alternative.  (He  forgot  that  sug- 
gestion about  the  Himalayas,  which  did  not,  perhaps,  de- 
serve to  be  forgotten.)  And  the  alternative  was  hideous 
to  him  now — hideous  in  its  loss  of  all  nobility,  of  all  the 
ideal,  in  its  cynioally  open-eyed  acceptance  of  what  was  low 
and  base.  He  would  have  come  to  that  but  for  Sibylla. 
But  for  him,  even  Sibylla — Sibylla  mated  to  Grantley — 
might  have  come  to  it  also.  It  was  from  such  a  fate  as 
this  that  they  must  rescue  one  another.  One  wise  decision, 
one  courageous  stroke,  and  the  thing  was  done.  Very  emo- 
tional, very  exalted,  he  contrasted  with  the  life  Caylesham 
had  led  the  life  he  and  Sibylla  were  to  lead.  Could  any 
man  hesitate  ?  With  a  new  impetus  and  with  louder  self- 
applause  he  turned  to  his  task  of  persuading  Sibylla  to 
the  decisive  step. 


IMAGES  AND  THEIR  WORK  153 

Part  of  the  work  was  accomplished.  Sibylla  had  cast 
Grantley  out  of  her  heart;  she  disclaimed  and  denied  both 
her  love  and  her  obligation  to  him.  The  harder  part  re- 
mained :  that  had  been  half  done  in  her  vigil  by  the  baby's 
cot.  But  it  was  ever  in  danger  of  being  undone  again. 
A  cry  from  the  boy's  lips,  the  trustful  clinging  of  his  arms 
from  day  to  day,  fought  against  Blake.  Only  in  those 
gusts  of  unnatural  feeling,  those  spasms  of  repugnance  born 
of  her  misery,  was  she  in  heart  away  from  the  child.  On 
these  Blake  could  not  rely,  nor  did  he  seek  to,  since  to  speak 
of  them  brought  her  to  instant  remorse;  but  left  to  be 
brooded  over  in  silence  they  might  help  him  yet.  He  trust- 
ed his  old  weapons  more — his  need  of  her  love  and  her 
need  to  give  it.  Caylesham's  life  gave  him  a  new  instance 
and  added  strength  to  his  argument.  He  told  her  of  the 
man,  though  not  the  man's  name,  sketching  the  life  and 
the  state  of  mind  it  brought  a  man  to. 

"That  was  my  life  till  you  came,"  he  said.  "That  was 
what  was  waiting  for  me.    Am  I  to  go  back  to  that?" 

He  could  attack  her  on  another  side  too. 

"And  will  you  live  the  sort  of  life  that  man  has  made 
women  live?  Is  that  fit  for  you?  You  can  see  what  it 
would  do  to  you.  You  would  get  like  what  he's  like.  You 
would  come  down  to  his  level.  First  you'd  share  his  lies 
and  his  intrigues,  perforce,  while  you  hated  them.  Grad- 
ually you'd  get  to  hate  them  less  and  less :  they'd  become 
normal,  habitual,  easy;  they'd  become  natural.  At  last 
you'd  see  little  harm  in  them.  The  only  harm  or  hurt  at 
last  would  be  discovery,  and  you'd  get  cunning  in  avoiding 
that.  Think  of  you  and  me  living  that  life — aye,  till  each 
of  us  loathed  the  other  as  well  as  loathing  ourselves.  Is 
that  what  you  mean?" 

"Not  that,  anyhow  not  that,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
her  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed  questioningly  on  him. 


i54  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"If  not  that  and  not  the  other,  what  then?  Am  I  to 
go  away?"  But  he  put  Caylesham's  alternative  in  no  sin- 
cerity. He  put  it  to  her  only  that  she  might  thrust  it 
away.  If  she  did  not,  he  would  spurn  it  himself.  "And 
where  should  I  go?  Back  to  where  I  came  from — back  to 
that  life?" 

She  could  not  tell  him  to  go  away,  nor  to  go  back  to 
that  life.  She  sat  silent,  picturing  what  his  life  and  what 
her  own  would  be  through  all  the  years,  the  livelong 
years,  when  even  the  boy's  love  would  be  bitterness,  and 
she  could  have  a  friend  in  nobody  because  of  the  great  sad 
secret  which  would  govern  all  her  life. 

"I  can't  tell  you.     I  can't  decide  to-day." 

Again  and  again  she  had  told  him  that,  fighting  against 
the  final  and  the  irrevocable. 

But  Blake  was  urgent  now,  wrought  up  to  an  effort, 
very  full  of  his  theories  and  his  aspirations,  full  too  of 
a  rude  natural  impatience  which  he  called  by  many  alien 
names,  deceiving  his  very  soul  that  he  might  have  his 
heart's  desire,  and  have  it  without  let  or  hindrance. 
He  launched  his  last  argument,  a  last  cruel  argument, 
whose  cruelty  seemed  justice  to  a  mind  absorbed  in 
its  own  selfishness.  But  she  had  eyes  for  no  form  of 
selfishness  save  Grantley's.  To  ask  all  did  not  seem 
selfishness  to  her;  it  was  asking  nothing  or  too  little  that 
she  banned. 

"You've  gone  too  far,"  he  told  her.  "You  can't  turn 
back  now.  Look  what  you've  done  to  me  since  you  came 
into  my  life.  Think  what  you've  taught  me  to  hope  and 
believe — how  you've  let  me  count  on  you.  You've  no 
right  to  think  of  the  difficulties  or  the  distress  now.  You 
ought  to  have  thought  of  all  that  long  ago." 

It  was   true,   terribly  true,   that  she  ought   to   have 


IMAGES  AND  THEIR  WORK  155 

thought  of  all  that  before.  Was  it  true  that  she  had 
lost  the  right  to  arrest  her  steps  and  the  power  to  turn 
back? 

"You're  committed  to  it.  You're  bound  by  more  than 
honour,  by  more  than  love.  You'll  be  untrue  to  every- 
body in  turn  if  you  falter  now." 

It  was  a  clever  plea  to  urge  on  a  distracted  mind. 
Where  decision  is  too  difficult,  there  lies  desperate  com- 
fort in  being  convinced  that  it  is  already  taken,  that  facts 
have  shaped  it,  and  previous  actions  irrevocably  commit- 
ted the  harassed  heart. 

"You've  made  my  love  for  you  my  whole  life.  You 
knew  you  were  doing  it.  You  did  it  with  full  knowledge 
of  what  it  meant.     I  say  you  can't  draw  back  now." 

He  had  worked  himself  up  to  a  pitch  of  high  excite- 
ment. There  was  nothing  wanting  in  his  manner  to  en- 
force his  words.  His  case  was  very  exceptional  indeed  to 
him;  and  so  it  seemed  to  her — believing  in  his  love  because 
of  the  love  she  had  herself  to  give,  yearning  to  satisfy  the 
hunger  she  had  caused,  to  make  happy  the  life  which 
depended  utterly  on  her  for  joy. 

The  long  fight,  first  against  Grantley,  latterly  against 
herself,  had  worn  and  almost  broken  her.  She  had  no 
power  left  for  a  great  struggle  against  her  lover  now. 
Her  weariness  served  his  argument  well.  It  cried  out 
to  her  to  throw  herself  into  the  arms  which  were  so 
eagerly  ready  for  her.  One  way  or  the  other  anyhow  the 
battle  must  be  ended,  or  surely  it  would  make  an  end  of 
her. 

But  where  was  an  end  if  she  stayed  with  Grantley? 
That  life  was  all  struggle,  and  must  be  so  long  as  it 
endured.     Who  could  find  rest  on  a  flinty  wall? 

She  was  between  that  monstrous  image  she  had  made 


i56  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

of  her  husband,  and  the  shape  which  Blake  presented  to 
her  as  himself — far  more  alluring,  not  a  whit  less  false. 
But  for  the  falseness  of  either  she  had  no  eyes. 

"I  want  your  promise  to-day,"  he  said.  "Your  promise 
I  know  you  will  keep." 

He  had  become  quiet  now.  There  was  an  air  of  grave 
purpose  about  him.  His  excitement  and  ardour  had  done 
their  work  with  her;  this  succeeding  mood,  or  manner  (for 
he  had  lost  all  distinction  between  what  he  felt  and  what  he 
made  himself  seem  to  feel),  had  its  place,  and  was  well 
calculated  to  complete  his  victory. 

"I  will  send  you  my  answer  to-night,"  she  said. 

"It  means  all  that  I  am — everything  in  the  world  to  me. 
Remember  that." 

And  he  urged  her  no  more,  leaving  with  her  these  sim- 
ple sincere-sounding  words  to  plead  for  him. 

That  was  what  the  answer  meant  to  him.  What  would 
it  mean  to  Grantley  Imason?  She  asked  herself  this  as 
she  sat  silent  opposite  to  him  at  dinner.  It  chanced  that 
they  were  alone,  though  of  late  she  had  schemed  to  avoid 
that.  And  to-night  she  could  not  speak  to  him,  could  say 
nothing  at  all,  though  his  raised  brows  and  satirical  glance 
challenged  her.  Things  might  be  uncomfortable,  but  why 
lose  either  your  tongue  or  your  manners,  Grantley  seemed 
to  ask.  You  might  have  a  grievance  (Oh,  real  or  imagi- 
nary, as  you  please!)  against  your  husband,  but  why  not 
converse  on  topics  of  the  day  with  the  gentleman  at  the 
other  side  of  the  table?  He  seemed  to  be  able  to  do  his 
part  without  any  effort,  without  any  difficulty  to  avoid  open 
war,  and  yet  never  to  commit  himself  to  any  proposition 
for  peace.  All  through  the  years,  thought  Sibylla,  he 
would  go  on  suavely  discussing  the  topics  of  the  day,  while 
life  went  by,  and  love  and  joy  and  all  fair  things  withered 
from  the  face  of  the  earth. 


IMAGES  AND  THEIR  WORK  157 

The  servants  disappeared,  and  Grantley's  talk  became 
less  for  public  purposes. 

"I  wonder  how  old  John  has  got  on  with  Harriet  Court- 
land  I"  he  said  in  an  amused  way.  "He  was  uncommonly 
plucky  to  face  her.  But,  upon  my  word,  the  best  thing 
from  some  points  of  view  would  be  for  him  to  fail.  At 
least  it  would  be  the  best  if  old  Tom  wasn't  such  a  fool. 
But  as  soon  as  Tom  sees  a  chance  of  getting  rid  of  one 
woman,  he  saddles  himself  with  another." 

"Could  he  have  got  rid  of  Lady  Harriet?" 

"They  might  have  arranged  a  separation.  As  it  is, 
there'll  be  an  open  row,  I'm  afraid." 

"Still  if  it  puts  an  end  to  what's  intolerable — ?"  she  sug- 
gested, as  she  watched  him  drinking  his  coffee  and  smoking 
his  cigarette  with  his  delicate  satisfaction  in  all  things  that 
were  good. 

"A  very  unpleasant  way  out,"  he  said,  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

"Would  you  have  endured  what  Mr.  Courtland 
couldn't?" 

He  smiled  across  at  her;  the  sarcastic  note  was  strong 
in  his  voice  as  he  asked  : 

"Do  you  think  me  an  impatient  man?  Do  you  think 
I've  no  power  of  enduring  what  I  don't  like,  Sibylla?" 

She  flushed  a  little  under  his  look. 

"It's  true,"  he  went  on,  "that  I  endure  vulgarity  worst 
of  all;  and  Harriet  Courtland's  tantrums  are  very  vulgar, 
as  all  tantrums  are." 

"Only  tantrums?  Aren't  all  emotions,  all  feelings, 
rather  vulgar,  Grantley?" 

He  thought  a  smile  answer  enough  for  that.  It  was  no 
good  arguing  against  absurd  insinuations,  or  trying  to 
show  them  up.  Let  them  alone;  in  time  they  would  die 
of  their  own  absurdity. 


158  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Grantley,  would  you  rather  I  went  away?  Don't  you 
find  life  unendurable  like  this?" 

"I  don't  find  it  pleasant,"  he  smiled;  "but  I  would  cer- 
tainly rather  you  didn't  go  away.  But  if  you  want  a  change 
for  a  few  weeks,  I'll  endeavour  to  resign  myself." 

"I  mean,  go  away  altogether." 

"No,  no,  I'm  sure  you  don't  mean  anything  so —  For- 
give me,  Sibylla,  but  now  and  then  your  suggestions  are 
hard  to  describe  with  perfect  courtesy." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  wondering  way,  but  made  no  an- 
swer; and  he  too  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing,"  he  went  on,  "if  you 
and  Frank  betook  yourselves  to  Milldean  for  a  few  weeks. 
I'm  so  busy  that  I  can  see  very  little  of  you  here,  and 
country  air  is  good  for  nerves." 

"Very  well,  we'll  go  in  a  day  or  two.    You'll  stay  here  ?" 

"Yes,  I  must.  I'll  try  to  get  down  now  and  then,  and 
bring  some  cheerful  people  with  me.  Blake  will  come 
sometimes,  I  daresay.  Jeremy  won't  till  he's  rich  and  fa- 
mous, I'm  afraid." 

In  spite  of  herself,  it  flashed  across  her  that  he  was  mak- 
ing her  path  very  easy.  And  she  wondered  at  the  way  he 
spoke  of  Blake,  at  his  utter  absence  of  suspicion.  Her 
conscience  moved  a  little  at  this. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  you'll  be  better  at  Milldean,"  he  went 
on;  "and — and  try  to  think  things  over  while  you're 
there." 

It  was  his  old  attitude.  He  had  nothing  to  think  over 
— that  task  was  all  for  her.  The  old  resentment  overcame 
her  momentary  shame  at  deceiving  him. 

"Are  they  so  pleasant  that  I  want  to  think  them  over?" 

"I  think  you  know  what  I  mean;  and  in  this  connection 
I  don't  appreciate  repartee  for  its  own  sake,"  said  Grant* 
ley  wearily,  but  with  a  polite  smile. 


IMAGES  AND  THEIR  WORK  159 

A  sudden  impulse  came  upon  her.  She  leaned  across 
toward  him  and  said: 

"Grantley,  have  you  seen  Frank  to-day?" 

"No,  I  haven't  to-day." 

"I  generally  go  and  sit  by  him  for  a  little  while  at  this 
time  when  I'm  free.     Did  you  know  that?" 

"I  gathered  it,"  said  Grantley. 

"You've  never  come  with  me,  nor  offered  to." 

"I'm  not  encouraged  to  volunteer  things  in  my  relations 
with  you,  Sibylla." 

"Will  you  come  with  me  now?"  she  asked. 

She  herself  could  not  tell  under  what  impulse  she  spoke 
— whether  it  were  in  hope  that  at  the  last  he  might  change, 
or  in  the  hope  of  convincing  herself  that  he  would  never 
change.  She  watched  him  very  intently,  as  though  much 
hung  on  the  answer  that  he  gave. 

Grantley  seemed  to  weigh  his  answer  too,  looking  at  his 
wife  with  searching  eyes.  There  was  a  patch  of  red  on  his 
cheeks.  Evidently  what  she  had  said  stirred  him,  and  his 
composure  was  maintained  only  by  an  effort.  At  last  he 
spoke : 

"I'm  sorry  not  to  do  anything  you  ask  or  wish,  but  as 
matters  are  I  will  not  come  and  see  Frank  with  you." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked  in  a  quick  half-whisper. 

His  eyes  were  very  sombre  as  he  answered  her. 

"When  you  remember  that  you're  my  wife,  I'll  remem- 
ber that  you  are  the  mother  of  my  son.  Till  then  you  are 
an  honoured  and  welcome  guest  in  this  house  or  in  any 
house  of  mine." 

Their  eyes  met.  Both  were  defiant,  neither  showed  a 
sign  of  yielding.  Sibylla  drew  in  her  breath  in  a  long  in- 
halation. 

"Very  well,  I  understand,"  she  said. 

He  rose  from  his  chair. 


160  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"You're  going  upstairs  now?"  he  suggested,  as  though 
about  to  open  the  door. 

"I'm  going,  but  I'm  not  going  upstairs  to-night,"  she 
answered  as  she  rose.  "I  shall  go  and  write  a  letter  or 
two  instead." 

He  bowed  politely  as  she  passed  out  of  the  room.  Then 
he  sat  down  at  the  table  again  and  rested  his  head  on  both 
his  hands.  It  took  long — it  took  a  very  long  while.  She 
was  hard  to  subdue.  Hard  it  was  too  to  subdue  himself 
— to  be  always  courteous,  never  more  than  permissibly 
ironical,  to  wait  for  his  victory.  Yet  not  a  doubt  crossed 
his  mind  that  he  was  on  the  right  track,  that  he  must  suc- 
ceed in  the  end,  that  plain  reason  and  good  sense  must  win 
the  day.  But  the  fight  was  very  long.  His  face  looked 
haggard  in  the  light  as  he  sat  alone  by  the  table  and  told 
himself  to  persevere. 

And  Sibylla,  confirmed  in  her  despair,  bitterly  resentful 
of  the  terms  he  had  proposed,  seeing  the  hopelessness  of 
her  life,  fearing  to  look  on  the  face  of  her  child  lest  the 
pain  should  rend  her  too  pitilessly,  sat  down  and  wrote  her 
answer  to  Walter  Blake.  The  answer  was  the  promise  he 
had  asked. 

The  images  had  done  their  work — hers  of  him  and  his 
of  her — and  young  Blake's  fancy  picture  of  himself. 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

THE    DEAD    AND    ITS    DEAD 

UX"V"  TELL,   have  you  managed  to  amuse  yourself 

\/\/  to-day?"   asked   Caylesham,  throwing  himself 
▼    ▼     heavily   on   a   sofa   by   Tom    Courtland,    and 
yawning  widely. 

He  had  dropped  in  at  Mrs.  Bolton's,  after  dinner.  Tom 
had  spent  the  day  there,  and  had  not  managed  to  amuse 
himself  very  much,  as  the  surly  grunt  with  which  he 
answered  Caylesham's  question  sufficiently  testified.  He 
had  eaten  too  much  lunch,  played  cards  too  long  and  too 
high,  with  too  many  "drinks"  interspersed  between  the 
hands;  then  had  eaten  a  large  dinner,  accompanied  by 
rather  too  much  champagne;  then  had  played  cards  again 
till  both  his  pocket  and  his  temper  were  the  worse.  There 
had  been  nothing  startling,  nothing  lurid  about  his  day; 
it  had  just  been  unprofitable,  boring,  unwholesome.  And 
he  did  not  care  about  Mrs.  Bolton's  friends — not  about 
Miss  Pattie  Henderson,  nor  about  the  two  quite  young 
men  who  had  made  up  the  card-party.  His  face  was  a 
trifle  flushed,  and  his  toothbrushy  hair  had  even  more  than 
usual  of  its  suggestion  of  comical  distress. 

"Been  a  bit  dull,  has  it?"  Caylesham  went  on  sym- 
pathetically. "Well,  it  often  is.  Oh,  I  like  our  friend 
Flora  Bolton,  you  know,  so  long  as  she  doesn't  get  a  fit  of 
nerves  and  tell  you  how  different  she  might  have  been. 
People  should  never  do  that.  At  other  times  she's  a  good 
sort,  and  just  as  ready  to  ruin  herself  as  anybody  else — 
nothing  of  the  good  old  traditional  harpy  about  her.  Still 
perhaps  it  works  out  about  the  same." 

It  certainly  worked  out  about  the  same,  as  nobody  knew 

161 


i62  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

better  than  Tom  Courtland.  He  was  thinking  now  that 
he  had  paid  rather  high  for  a  not  very  lively  day.  The 
only  person  he  had  won  from  was  Miss  Henderson,  and 
he  was  not  sure  that  she  would  pay. 

"Must  spend  your  time  somewhere/'  he  jerked  out  for- 
lornly. 

"A  necessity  of  life,"  Caylesham  agreed;  "and  it  doesn't 
make  so  much  difference,  after  all,  where  you  do  it.  I 
rather  agree  with  the  fellow  who  said  that  the  only  dis- 
tinction he  could  see  between — well,  between  one  sort  of 
house  and  the  other  sort — was  that  in  the  latter  you  could 
be  more  certain  of  finding  whiskey  and  soda  on  the  side- 
board in  the  morning.  And  now  I'm  hanged  if  that  cri- 
terion isn't  failing  one!  Whiskey  and  soda's  got  so 
general." 

The  card-party  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  was  ani- 
mated and  even  a  little  noisy.  Mrs.  Bolton  was  prone  to 
hearty  laughter.  Miss  Henderson  had  a  penetrating 
voice,  and  usually  gave  a  little  shriek  of  delight  when  she 
won.  The  two  young  men  were  rather  excited.  Cayle- 
sham regarded  the  whole  scene  with  humorous  contempt. 
Tom  Courtland  sat  in  moody  silence,  doing  nothing.  He 
had  even  smoked  till  he  could  smoke  no  more.  He  had 
not  a  pleasure  left. 

Presently  Miss  Pattie  threw  down  her  cards  and  came 
across  to  them.  She  was  a  tall  ladylike-looking  woman; 
only  the  faintest  trace  of  Cockney  accent  hung  about  the 
voice.     She  sat  down  by  Caylesham  in  a  friendly  way. 

"We  hardly  ever  see  you  now,"  she  told  him.  "Are 
you  all  right?" 

"All  right,  but  getting  old,  Pattie.  I'm  engaged  in 
digging  my  own  grave." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  you're  quite  fit  still.  I  say,  have  you 
heard  about  me?" 


THE  DEAD  163 

"Lots  of  things." 

"No,  don't  be  silly.  I  mean,  that  I'm  going  to  be 
married?" 

"No,  are  you,  by  Jove?     Who's  the  happy  man?" 

"Georgie  Parmenter.  Do  you  know  him?  He's  aw- 
fully nice." 

"I  know  his  father.  May  I  proffer  advice?  Get  that 
arrangement  put  down  in  writing.  Then  at  the  worst 
it'll  be  worth  something  to  you." 

Miss  Pattie  was  not  at  all  offended.  She  laughed 
merrily. 

"They  always  said  you  were  pretty  wide-awake,  and  I 
believe  it!"  she  observed.  "He'll  have  ten  thousand  a 
year  when  his  father  dies." 

"In  the  circumstances  you  mention  he  won't  have 
a  farthing  a  year  till  that  event  happens,  I'm  afraid,  Pattie. 
A  man  of  strong  prejudices,  old  Sir  George." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I've  got  letters  enough  to " 

"That's  all  right.     I  shall  watch  the  case  with  interest." 

He  yawned  again  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Tom's  pretty  dull,  isn't  he?"  asked  Miss  Pattie  with 
a  comical  pout. 

"Yes,  Tom's  pretty  dull,  certainly." 

"I'm  sleepy,"  said  Tom  Courtland. 

"So  am  I.  I  shall  go  home,"  and  Caylesh?m  walked 
off  to  bid  the  lady  of  the  house  good-night. 

The  lady  of  the  house  came  into  the  hall  and  helped 
him  on  with  his  coat.  It  appeared  that  she  wanted  to 
have  a  word  with  him — first  about  the  wisdom  of  backing 
one  of  his  horses,  and  secondly  about  Tom  Courtland. 
Caylesham  told  her  on  no  account  to  back  the  horse,  since 
it  wouldn't  win,  and  waited  to  hear  what  she  had  to  say 
about  Tom. 

"I'm  distressed  about  him,   Frank,"  she  said.     "You 


164  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

know  I  do  like  Tom,  and  I  never  saw  a  man  so  down  in 
the  mouth."  Her  face  was  rather  coarse  in  feature  and 
ruddy  in  tint,  but  kindly  and  good-natured;  her  concern 
for  Tom  was  evidently  quite  genuine.  "What  a  devil 
that  wife  of  his  must  be!" 

"She  has  her  faults.  Perhaps  we  have  ours.  Be  chari- 
table, Flora." 

"Oh,  you  can  be  as  sarcastic  as  you  like.  Heaven  knows 
1  don't  mind  that !  But  I'm  worried  to  death  about  him, 
and  about  what  she'll  do.  And  then  there's  the  money 
too.  I  believe  he's  hard  up.  It's  very  tiresome  all  round. 
Oh,  I  don't  care  much  what  people  say  of  me,  but  I  don't 
want  to  go  through  the  court  again,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"Which  of  the  two  courts  do  you  refer  to?"  he  asked, 
as  he  buttoned  his  coat.     "Bankruptcy  or ?" 

"Either  of  them,  Frank,  you  old  fool !"  she  laughed. 

"Send  him  back  to  his  wife.  You'll  have  to  soon,  any- 
how— when  the  money's  gone,  you  know.  Do  it  now — 
before  those  two  men  come  and  stand  opposite  to  see  who 
goes  in  and  out  of  the  house." 

"But  the  poor  chap's  so  miserable,  Frank;  and  I  like 
him,  you  see." 

"Ah,  I  can't  help  you  against  honest  and  kindly 
emotions.     They're  not  part  of  the  game,  you  know." 

"No,  they  aren't;  but  they  come  in.  That's  the  worst 
of  it,"  sighed  Mrs.  ■  Bolton.  "Well,  good-night,  Frank. 
We  shall  get  through  somehow,  I  suppose." 

"That's  the  only  gospel  left  to  this  age,  Flora.  Good- 
night." 

He  had  not  been  able  to  help  poor  Mrs.  Bolton  much; 
he  had  not  expected  to  be  able  to.  That  things  could  not 
be  helped  and  must  be  endured  was,  as  he  had  hinted, 
about  the  one  certain  dogma  of  his  creed.  The  thing  then 
was  to  endure  them  as  easily  as  possible,  to  feel  them  as 


THE  DEAD  165 

little  as  one  could  either  for  oneself  or  for  other  people. 
There  was  Flora  Bolton's  mistake,  and  a  mistake  especially 
fatal  for  a  woman  in  her  position.  She  would  probably 
have  been  much  happier  if  she  had  not  been  just  as  ready 
to  ruin  herself  as  she  was  to  ruin  anybody  else — if  she 
had,  in  fact,  been  the  old  traditional  harpy  through  and 
through. 

In  truth  it  was  not  the  least  use  distressing  himself  about 
Tom  Courtland.  Still  he  was  rather  worried  about  the 
affair,  because  Tom,  again,  was  not  thoroughly  suited  to 
the  part  he  was  now  playing.  Plenty  of  men  were,  and 
they  demanded  no  pity.  But  poor  old  Tom  was  not.  He 
could  not  spend  his  money  without  thinking  about  it;  he 
could  not  do  things  without  considering  their  bearings 
and  their  consequences;  he  could  not  forget  to-morrow. 
He  had  none  of  the  qualifications.  His  tendencies  were 
just  as  little  suited  to  the  game  as  were  Flora  Bolton's 
honest  and  kindly  emotions.  Tom  was  pre-eminently 
fitted  to  distribute  the  bacon  at  the  family  breakfast  and 
to  take  the  children  for  their  Sunday  walk,  to  work  away 
at  his  politics  in  a  solid  undistinguished  way,  and  to  have 
a  little  margin  in  hand  when  he  came  to  make  up  the  an- 
nual budget  of  his  household.  But  Lady  Harriet  had 
prevailed  to  rout  all  these  natural  tendencies.  A  remark- 
able woman  Lady  Harriet! 

Suddenly  Caylesham  saw  ahead  of  him  a  figure  which 
he  recognised  by  the  light  of  the  street  lamps.  It  was  John 
Fanshaw  going  in  the  direction  of  his  home.  It  was  rather 
late  for  John  to  be  about,  and  Caylesham's  first  idea  was 
to  overtake  him  and  rally  him  on  his  dissipated  hours.  He 
had  already  quickened  his  steps  with  this  view,  when  it 
struck  him  that,  after  all,  he  would  not  accost  John.  It 
might  look  as  if  he  wanted  to  be  thanked  for  his  loan. 
Anyhow  John  would  feel  bound  to  thank  him,  and  he  did 


1 66  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

not  desire  to  be  thanked.  So  he  fell  behind,  and  fol- 
lowed in  that  fashion  till  his  road  home  diverged  from 
John's.  But  the  encounter  had  turned  his  thoughts  in  a 
new  direction.  Tom  and  Lady  Harriet  were  no  more 
in  his  mind,  nor  was  Flora  Bolton.  He  was  thinking 
about  Christine  as  he  turned  into  his  flat,  and  being  sorry 
that  she  had  felt  so  much  dislike  to  taking  the  money 
from  him.  It  was  all  right  that  she  should  dislike  it, 
but  still  he  was  sorry  for  her.  Christine's  small  dainty 
face  had  always  kept  so  much  of  the  child  about  it  that 
it  had  the  power  of  making  him  very  sorry  for  her  just 
because  she  was  sorry  for  herself,  apart  from  any  good 
reasons  at  all.  His  feelings,  however  well  schooled  they 
might  be,  would  not  easily  have  faced  a  great  distress 
on  Christine's  face.  But  as  he  got  into  his  dressing-gown 
the  sombre  hue  passed  from  his  mind.  Either  there  was 
nothing  to  worry  about,  or  it  was  no  good  worrying. 
Everybody  would  get  through  somehow. 

John  Fanshaw  pursued  his  homeward  way  heavily  and 
slowly.  He  had  gone  straight  from  the  Courtlands' 
house  to  the  quietest  of  his  clubs,  and  sent  a  messenger 
to  his  wife  to  say  that  he  was  going  to  dine  there,  and 
that  she  was  not  to  sit  up  in  case  he  were  late  back.  He 
wanted  to  think  the  thing  over,  and  he  did  not  want  to 
see  Christine.  He  could  not  even  try  to  doubt;  Harriet 
Courtland's  passionate  taunt  and  her  passionate  remorse 
— her  remorse  most  of  all — had  carried,  and  continued  to 
carry,  absolute  conviction;  and  memory,  hideously  active 
and  acute,  still  plied  him  with  confirmatory  details.  After 
these  six  years  he  remembered  things  which  at  the  time 
he  could  hardly  have  been  said  to  know;  they  emerged 
from  insignificance  and  took  on  glaring  meanings.  How 
had  he  been  so  blind.  Yet  he  had  been  utterly  blind.  He 
had  had  many  quarrels  with  Christine — over  money  and 


THE  DEAD  167 

so  forth;  he  had  blamed  her  for  many  faults,  sometimes 
justly,  sometimes  not.  This  one  thing  he  had  never  sus- 
pected— no,  nor  dreamed — of  her.  It  seemed  to  shat- 
ter at  one  blow  all  his  conceptions  of  their  married  life. 
He  was  confused  and  bewildered  at  the  thought  of  it 
— so  it  cut  away  foundations  and  tore  up  deep-grown 
roots.  Christine  do  that?  Orderly,  cool,  sarcastic,  self- 
controlled  Christine!  She  seemed  the  old  Christine  no 
more.  He  did  not  know  how  to  be  toward  her.  He 
would  hate  to  have  her  near  him — she  would  not  seem  to 
be  his. 

He  found  himself  wishing  he  had  known  of  the  thing 
at  the  time.  It  would  have  been  a  fearful  shock,  but  by 
now  he  would  have  grown  used  to  it.  Something  would 
have  been  done,  or,  if  nothing  had  been  done,  the  thing 
would  have  become  ancient  history — a  familiar  fact  to 
which  they  would  have  adjusted  themselves.  It  was  awful 
to  be  told  of  it  now,  when  it  seemed  too  late  to  do  any- 
thing, when  the  wound  was  so  old,  and  yet  the  smart  of 
it  so  fresh ! 

And  she  had  been  such  a  good  wife — yes,  on  the  whole. 
Their  bickerings  had  been  only  bickerings,  and  he  had 
often  been  as  much  to  blame  as  she.  On  the  whole  she 
had  been  such  a  loyal  friend  and  such  a  comforting  com- 
panion. He  had  liked  even  her  acid  little  speeches — on 
the  whole.  He  had  always  thought  her  not  very  demon- 
strative perhaps,  but  very  true — true  as  steel.  Cold  per- 
haps— he  had  felt  that  and  resented  it  sometimes — but 
always  true.  He  had  never  had  a  misgiving  as  to  that  in 
all  his  married  life. 

When  he  got  home  he  went  straight  to  his  study  and 
sat  down  at  his  writing-table.  It  was  one  o'clock,  and 
Christine  would  have  gone  to  bed — he  was  glad  of  that. 
He  made  an  effort  to  collect  his  mind,  because  the  imme- 


1 68  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

diate  question  was  not  of  what  Christine  had  done,  not  of 
the  blow  to  him,  not  whether  he  wanted  to  see  Christine 
or  even  could  bear  to  see  her,  not  of  the  change  all  his 
life  and  all  his  ideas  had  undergone.  There  was  plenty 
of  time  to  think  of  all  that  later  on.  He  must  think  now 
of  the  other  thing — of  how  he  stood  and  of  what  he  was 
going  to  do. 

He  took  out  his  keys  and  unlocked  the  despatch-box 
that  stood  on  the  table.  After  pausing  to  take  a  drink 
of  whiskey  and  water,  he  opened  the  upper  drawer  and 
drew  forth  Caylesham's  cheque  for  fifteen  thousand 
pounds.  It  had  been  post-dated  to  the  Monday — it  was 
already  Monday  now.  In  nine  hours  it  was  to  have  been 
credited  to  his  account  at  the  bank,  ready  to  answer  his 
obligations,  to  discharge  his  commitments,  to  reassure  his 
creditors,  to  drive  away  all  the  clouds  which  had  obscured 
the  fair  fame  of  his  firm.  Caylesham's  cheque  and 
Grantley's  were  to  have  been  salvation.  Grantley's  alone 
was  no  use.  And  Caylesham's — he  held  it  in  his  fingers 
and  looked  at  it  with  a  poring  scrutiny. 

Twice  he  reached  for  an  envelope,  in  the  mind  to  send 
it  back — to  send  it  back  either  with  the  truth  or  with  a 
lie.  Once  he  took  hold  of  either  end,  as  though  to  tear  it 
across.  But  a  paralysis  fell  on  his  fingers.  How  should 
he  send  back,  how  should  he  destroy,  that  all-potent  little 
slip  of  paper?  It  meant  credit,  honour,  comfort,  peace — 
perhaps  even  life.  His  imagination  pictured  two  scenes 
— going  to  the  City,  to  his  office,  next  day,  with  that  slip 
of  paper;  and  going  without  it.  The  sketch  was  enough 
— his  thoughts  were  busy  to  fill  in  the  details.  One 
picture  meant  a  gradual  ascent  from  out  of  all  his 
troubles;  the  other  a  fall  into  a  gulf  of  calamity  unfath- 
omable. His  hands  refused  to  destroy  or  to  send  back  the 
cheque. 


THE  DEAD  169 

But  if  he  kept  it,  used  it,  owed  salvation  to  it — what 
would  that  mean?  The  question  bewildered  him.  He 
could  not  make  out  what  that  would  mean  as  regarded 
either  himself  or  Caylesham  or  Christine — least  of  all 
what  it  would  mean  as  regarded  Christine.  He  was 
dully  conscious  that  the  act  would  be  in  some  sort  a 
condonation.  A  condonation  going  how  far?  Impos- 
ing what  attitude  and  what  course  of  conduct  on  him? 
How  far  would  it  condition  his  bearing  toward  Cayle- 
sham, how  far  affect  his  estimate  of  himself?  Above 
all,  how  far  dictate  his  relations  to  Christine.  He 
knew  very  well  what  would  come  of  destroying  the 
cheque  or  of  sending  it  back.  He  could  not  reason 
out  what  he  would  stand  committed  to  if  he  kept  and 
used  it. 

Ah,  this  horrible  question  could  not  have  arisen,  either, 
if  he  had  known  of  the  thing  at  the  time.  It  was  fearful 
to  be  told  of  it  now. 

"It's  a  terrible  situation  for  a  man  to  be  placed  in — 
terrible!"  he  said  aloud. 

The  thought  flashed  across  his  mind  that  he  could 
pretend  not  to  know.  He  could  give  Lady  Harriet  a 
caution;  he  could  tell  her  he  attached  no  importance  to 
her  words;  she  would  take  the  hint  and  be  glad.  Cayle- 
sham would  suspect  nothing.  He  could  keep  the  cheque. 
But  Christine?  Could  he  make  that  pretence  to  Chris- 
tine? 

He  was  sitting  shrunk  low  into  his  chair,  the  cheque 
still  in  his  fingers,  when  the  door  opened  softly,  and 
Christine  came  in.  She  had  heard  him  open  and  close 
the  front  door,  and  had  wondered  why  he  did  not  come 
upstairs.  His  delay,  taken  with  his  staying  out  all  the 
evening,  made  her  ask  whether  anything  had  happened. 
She  was  in  a  white  dressing-gown,  which  she  had  thrown 


1 7o  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

on  when  she  got  out  of  bed,  and  little  slippers  of  white 
fur.  She  looked  very  small,  very  dainty,  very  childish; 
her  hair  was  like  a  child's  too,  brushed  smoothly  away 
from  the  forehead. 

"Why,  John,  what's  kept  you  so  late?  And  what  are 
you  doing  here?" 

She  came  some  steps  toward  him  before  she  saw 
what  it  was  that  he  held  in  his  hand.  Then  she  smiled, 
saying: 

"You're  gloating  over  that  cheque,  you  foolish 
man!" 

He  raised  dull  slow  eyes  to  her. 

"Yes,  I've  got  it  here,"  he  muttered. 

Christine  walked  to  the  rug;  his  table  was  on  one  side 
of  the  fireplace,  and  she  was  within  five  or  six  feet  of 
him. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  it?"  she  asked  with  an  im- 
patient ring  in  her  voice.  She  did  not  enjoy  the  sight  of 
the  cheque,  and  had  hoped  to  be  able  by  degrees  to  for- 
get it. 

"It's  dated  for  Monday.  I  ought  to  pay  it  in  in  the 
morning." 

"Well,  why  not?  Of  course  you'll  pay  it  in."  A  sud- 
den hope  rose  in  her.  "Nothing's  occurred  to  make  it 
unnecessary?" 

He  shook  his  head  heavily,  and  laid  the  paper  down  on 
the  table. 

"No,  nothing,"  he  said,  and  then  his  eyes  rested  on  her 
again. 

"John,  aren't  you  well?"  she  asked. 

Her  littleness  and  her  childishness  made  no  appeal  to 
his  tender  feelings.  Their  contrast  with  what  she  had 
done,  with  the  way  she  had  deceived  and  betrayed  him, 
roused  all  his  repulsion  again,  and  with  it  came  now  a 


THE  DEAD  i7i 

man's  primitive  fierce  anger.  It  was  impossible  for  him 
to  pretend  not  to  know. 

"Go  away!"  he  said  in  a  thick  harsh  whisper.  "Go  to 
bed.     I  don't  want  you.    I  want  to  be  alone." 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  grow  large ;  a  fearful  apprehension 
dawned  in  them. 

"What's  the  matter?  What  have  I  done?"  she  asked, 
trying  to  summon  her  wits,  wondering  at  what  point  she 
was  attacked.  Already  her  thoughts  were  on  Caylesham, 
but  she  did  not  yet  see  whence  suspicion  could  have 
come. 

He  gave  her  no  clue.  His  eyes  had  fallen  to  the  cheque 
again ;  he  kept  shuffling  his  legs  about  and  fidgeting  with 
his  short  stiff  beard. 

"Ah,"  she  cried  suddenly,  "you  went  to  Harriet 
Courtland's  to-day!  Has  she  said  something  about 
me?  John,  you  wouldn't  believe  what  she  said  against 
me?" 

He  made  no  answer.  In  truth  she  needed  none.  She 
knew  Harriet  Courtland,  who  had  been  her  friend  and 
in  her  confidence.  It  had  not  been  considered  safe  to 
send  Raymore,  because  Harriet  would  have  taunted  him 
about  his  erring  son.  She  knew  what  Harriet,  blind 
with  rage,  had  found  to  taunt  John  Fanshaw  with.  She 
was  hardly  conscious  of  resentment  against  the  traitor. 
It  was  all  too  hopeless  for  that,  and  it  all  seemed  too 
inevitable.  From  the  moment  she  had  agreed  to  go  to 
Caylesham  for  the  money,  her  forebodings  had  told  her 
that  calamity  would  come.  That  was  opening  the  grave. 
Now  the  dead  bones  had  come  to  life.  She  felt  as 
though  she  could  not  struggle  against  it — could  not  protest 
nor  deny.  She  did  not  see  how  anybody  could  believe  her 
denial. 


172  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"Why  haven't  you  gone?  I  told  you  to  go.  In  God's 
name,  go!"  he  growled  threateningly.  "Leave  me  alone, 
I  tell  you." 

She  gathered  her  dressing-gown  closer  round  her.  She 
felt  as  though  the  cold  struck  through  it  to  her  body. 
She  felt  utterly  prostrated — and,  oh,  so  terribly,  so  help- 
lessly sorry  for  poor  old  John !  She  hated  leaving  him 
alone,  and  wished  there  was  somebody  else  there  to  con- 
sole him.  She  made  an  advance  toward  him,  holding  out 
her  hands. 

"Don't  come  here!  Don't  come  near  me!"  he  said  in 
a  low  voice. 

She  drew  back;  her  eyes  were  on  him  and  full  of  pity. 
Now  the  cheque  came  into  her  mind. 

"And  that?"  she  whispered. 

"I  think  I  shall  kill  you  if  you  don't  go,"  he  said,  with 
a  sudden  unsteadiness  in  his  voice. 

"Oh,  I'll  go!"  she  murmured  disconsolately.  "I'll  leave 
you  alone."  She  put  her  hands  up  before  her  face  and 
gave  a  choking  sob.     "It's  all  no  use  now." 

She  began  to  walk  across  the  room,  her  face  covered 
in  her  hands,  her  dressing-gown  trailing  on  the  floor  be- 
hind her.  But  when  she  had  got  half-way,  she  turned  on 
him  in  a  fit  of  weak  petulance. 

"I  didn't  want  to  go  to  him;  I  tried  not  to.  I  did  all  I 
could  to  avoid  going  to  him.  It  was  you  who  insisted. 
You  made  me  go.  How  could  I  help  it?  I  hated  it! 
And  now — "  She  came  a  step  toward  him,  and  her  voice 
changed  to  a  very  humble  sad  pleading:  "It's  very  long 
ago,  dear  John,  many  years  ago.  It  was  all  over  many 
years  ago." 

He  did  not  speak.  He  motioned  her  away  with  his 
hand;  her  appeal  did  not  seem  to  reach  him  at  all.     For 


THE  DEAD  173 

all  he  did,  he  might  not  have  heard  it.  With  a  long 
sigh  she  turned  away,  and  walked  unsteadily  to  the  door. 
When  she  reached  it,  she  turned  again,  and  looked  at 
him.  He  was  putting  the  cheque  back  in  the  despatch- 
box  with  awkward  trembling  hands.  She  went  slowly  up 
to  her  room  and  sat  down  before  the  dying  embers  of  the 
fire  there. 

John  would  send  back  the  cheque!  He  must  send  it 
back  now;  it  would  be  a  fearful  thing  to  keep  it,  know- 
ing what  he  did.  And  if  he  sent  it  back,  all  that  hap- 
pened then  would  be  on  her  head!  He  mustn't  send  it 
back !  She  started  up  once  in  a  panic,  ready  to  rush  down 
and  implore  him  to  keep  it — implore  him  to  commit  the 
baseness  of  keeping  it.  No,  she  could  not  do  that.  If 
she  were  never  to  speak  with  him  again,  her  last  word 
ought  to  be  to  beseech  him  to  send  it  back.  But  to  send 
it  back  was  ruin.  Between  the  remorseless  alternatives  of 
calamity  and  degradation  her  mind  oscillated  in  helpless 
indecision. 

Through  long  hours  of  the  night  John  Fanshaw  wres- 
tled with  himself;  and  when  at  last  he  crawled  up  to  his 
dressing-room,  flung  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  put  on 
his  slippers,  and  stretched  himself  exhausted  on  his  bed, 
he  declared  that  he  could  come  and  had  come  to  no  con- 
clusion— that  it  was  too  hard  for  him.  He  was  trying 
to  deceive  himself.  There  was  a  conclusion  which  he 
would  not  own,  which  had  crept  and  insinuated  itself  into 
his  mind,  while  he  struggled  against  it  and  denied  it  to 
himself. 

He  could  not  send  back  nor  destroy  the  cheque.  Still 
his  hands  had  refused  that  office.  He  could  not  face  the 
City  without  it,  could  not  endure  the  calamity  and  the 
ruin  which  the  loss  of  it  would  mean.     But  neither  would 


i74  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

he  face  that  fact  and  what  it  meant — that  he  was  to 
become  a  party  to  the  transaction,  to  recognise,  to  con- 
done, and  to  pardon.  He  had  no  right  to  keep  his  anger, 
his  indignation,  the  repulsion  which  made  him  drive  Chris- 
tine from  his  presence,  if  he  were  her  accomplice.  If  he 
kept  and  used  the  cheque,  what  right  had  he  to  moral 
indignation,  to  a  husband's  just  anger,  to  a  true  man's 
repulsion  at  the  shame  and  the  deceit?  Yet  he  would 
not  give  up  these  things.  He  hugged  them  in  his  heart, 
even  while  he  hugged  the  idea  of  the  cheque,  and  all  the 
virtue  of  the  cheque,  in  his  mind.  He  would  be  saved, 
but  he  would  not  touch  the  hand  that  saved  him.  That 
conclusion  did  not  bear  thinking  of.  But  conclusions 
which  do  not  bear  thinking  of  are  none  the  less  thought 
out;  they  take  possession  of  the  protesting  mind;  they 
establish  themselves  there.  Then  they  seek  sophisms,  ex- 
cuses, pleas  for  themselves;  they  point  to  the  good  results 
which  spring  from  them.  Time  and  familiarity  rob  them 
of  some  of  their  ugliness;  they  grow  habitual;  they  govern 
actions,  shape  lives,  and  condition  character.  John  Fan- 
shaw  would  have  it  both  ways — salvation  by  his  wife's  sin, 
and  horror  at  it. 

So  Harriet  Courtland  would  have  love  and  loyalty, 
though  she  bridled  not  her  evil  rage.  So  Mrs.  Bolton 
would  think  that  honest  and  kindly  emotions  could  flourish 
in  a  life  like  hers.  So  Grantley  Imason  asked  all  her  in- 
most life  and  love  of  another,  though  the  lock  was  kept 
turned  on  his  own.  So  Sibylla  would  give  the  rein  to  im- 
pulse, and  persuade  herself  that  she  performed  a  duty. 
So  young  Blake  would  seek  to  be  made  good  by  the  en- 
joyment of  his  darling  sin.  Only  dainty  little  Christine 
looked  open-eyed  at  the  pleasure  she  had  won  and  at  the 
ruin  it  had  made.    She  saw  these  things  clearly  as  she  sat 


THE  DEAD  i75 

sleepless  through  the  night.  And  when  she  watched  her 
husband  start  for  his  work  the  next  morning,  though  he 
had  told  her  nothing,  though  not  a  word  had  passed  be- 
tween them,  she  knew  well  that  Caylesham's  cheque 
was  in  his  pocket  and  would  find  its  way  to  the  bank 
that  day.  John  would  have  his  salvation — with  or  with- 
out its  price. 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

FOR    HIS    LOVE    AND    HIS    QUARREL 

JEREMY  CHIDDINGFOLD  had  established  him- 
self in  London  greatly  to  his  satisfaction.  He  had 
hired  a  bedroom  in  Ebury  Street,  an  attic,  and  had 
made  friends  with  one  Alec  Turner,  a  journalist,  who 
lodged  in  the  same  house.  Alec  Turner  took  him  often 
to  the  Metropolitan  Radical  Club,  and  had  proposed  him 
for  membership.  Here  he  could  eat  at  moderate  charges, 
play  chess,  smoke,  and  argue  about  all  things  in  heaven 
(assuming  heaven)  and  earth  (which,  anyhow,  was  full 
of  matter  for  argument).  And  at  Ebury  Street  he  was 
not  only  within  easy  reach  of  the  Imasons  in  Sloane  Street, 
but  equally  well  in  touch  with  the  Selfords  in  Eccleston 
Square,  and  the  Raymores  in  Buckingham  Gate.  A  third- 
class  on  the  Underground  Railway  from  Victoria  carried 
him  to  Liverpool  Street,  whence  he  proceeded  to  the  dye- 
ing-works near  Romford  in  Essex.  For  the  dyeing-works 
project  was  taking  shape.  Jeremy  had  been  down  to  Rom- 
ford several  times  to  look  round  and  see  what  the  processes 
were  like.  He  had  digested  the  article  on  dyeing  in  the 
Encyclopedia  Britannica,  and  had  possessed  himself  of  the 
Dictionary  of  Dyeing  and  the  Manual  of  Dyeing.  His 
talk  both  at  the  Metropolitan  Radical  Club  and  at  the 
houses  he  frequented  was  full  of  the  learning  and  the  ter- 
minology of  dyeing — things  you  dyed,  and  things  you  dyed 
the  things  with,  and  the  things  you  did  it  in,  and  so  forth. 
He  fascinated  Eva  Raymore  by  referring  airily  (and  at  this 

176 


FOR  HIS  LOVE  177 

stage  somewhat  miscellaneously)  to  warm  vats,  and  cop- 
peras, and  lime  vats,  to  insoluble  basic  compounds,  to  mor- 
dants and  their  applications,  to  single  and  double  muriate 
of  tin.  You  could  go  so  far  on  the  article  without  bother- 
ing about  the  Dictionary  or  the  Manual  at  all;  but  then 
Eva  did  not  know  that,  and  thought  him  vastly  erudite. 
In  fact  Jeremy  was  in  love  with  dyeing,  and  rapidly  re- 
considered his  estimate  of  the  Beautiful — the  Beautiful  as 
such,  even  divorced  from  Utility — in  the  scheme  of  nature 
and  of  life.  On  Alec  Turner's  recommendation,  he  read 
Ruskin  and  William  Morris,  and  thought  still  better  of 
the  Beautiful. 

He  soon  made  himself  at  home  both  at  the  Selfords' 
and  at  the  Raymores',  dropping  in  freely  and  casually,  with 
an  engaging  confidence  that  everybody  would  be  glad  to 
see  him  and  pleased  to  allow  him  to  deposit  his  long  angu- 
lar body  in  an  armchair  and  talk  about  dyeing  or  the  Social 
Armageddon.  He  was,  however,  interested  in  other  things 
too — not  so  much  in  pictures,  but  certainly  in  dogs.  He 
had  country  lore  about  dogs  and  their  diseases,  and  so  won 
Mrs.  Selford's  respect.  He  found  Anna  Selford's  keen 
mind  an  interesting  study,  and  delighted  to  tease  the  pretty 
innocence  of  Eva  Raymore.  In  neither  house  was  there 
a  young  man — no  son  at  the  Selfords',  and  the  Raymores' 
house  was  empty  of  theirs;  and  Jeremy,  in  his  shabby  coat, 
with  his  breezy  jollity  and  vigorous  young  self-assertion, 
came  like  a  gust  of  fresh  wind,  and  seemed  to  blow  the 
dust  out  of  the  place.  Mrs.  Raymore,  above  all,  wel- 
comed him.  He  went  straight  to  her  heart;  she  was  for 
ever  comparing  and  contrasting  him  with  her  own  boy  so 
far  away — and  only  just  the  inevitable  little  to  his  disad- 
vantage. Jeremy,  in  his  turn,  though  unconsciously,  loved 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Raymores'  house — the  abiding  sense 


178  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

of  trouble,  hard  to  bear  but  bravely  borne,  and  the  close- 
ness of  heart,  the  intimacy  of  love  which  it  had  brought. 
Being  at  the  Selfords'  amused  him;  but  being  at  the  Ray- 
mores'  did  more  than  that. 

And  what  of  his  broken  heart  ?  Anna  Selford  had  heard 
the  story  and  asked  him  once  in  her  mocking  way. 

"You  seem  so  very  cheerful,  Mr.  Chiddingfold!"  said 
she. 

Jeremy  explained  with  dignity.  His  heart  was  not 
broken;  it  had  merely  been  wounded.  Not  only  did  he 
consider  it  his,  and  any  man's,  duty  to  be  cheerful,  but  as 
a  fact  he  found  no  difficulty  in  being  cheerful,  occupied  as 
he  was  with  the  work  of  life,  and  sustained  by  a  firm  pur- 
pose and  an  unshaken  resolve. 

"Only  I  don't  care  to  talk  about  it,"  he  added,  by  which 
he  meant,  really,  that  he  did  not  care  to  talk  about  it  to 
persons  of  a  satirical  turn.  Mrs.  Raymore  could  get  him 
to  talk  about  it  very  freely,  while  to  Eva  he  would  some- 
times (usually  for  short  times)  be  so  moody  and  melan- 
choly as  to  excite  an  interest  of  a  distinctly  sentimental  na- 
ture. It  is  to  be  feared  that,  like  most  lovers,  Jeremy  was 
not  above  a  bit  of  posing  now  and  then.  He  was  having 
a  very  full  and  happy  life,  and,  without  noticing  the  fact, 
began  gradually  to  be  more  patient  about  the  riches  and 
the  fame. 

None  the  less,  affairs  were  in  train.  Selford's  working 
partners  were  disposed  to  be  complaisant  about  Jeremy 
and  the  dyeing-works;  they  were  willing  to  oblige  Selford, 
and  found  themselves  favourably  impressed  by  the  young 
man  himself.  But  business  is  business.  They  could  give 
him  a  pittance  for  ever,  no  doubt.  If  he  wanted  that  Very 
thing — an  opening — other  considerations  came  to  the 
front.     Good  openings  are  not  lightly  given  away. 


FOR   HIS   LOVE  179 

In  fine,  Jeremy  could  come  and  try  his  hand  at  a  nom- 
inal salary.  If  he  proved  his  aptitude,  they  would  be  will- 
ing to  have  him  for  a  junior  partner;  but  in  that  case  he 
must  put  five  thousand  pounds  into  the  business.  The  sum 
was  not  a  large  one  to  ask,  they  said;  and  with  all  their 
good  opinion  of  Jeremy  and  all  their  desire  to  oblige  Sel- 
ford,  they  could  not,  in  justice  to  themselves,  their  wives, 
and  their  families,  put  the  figure  any  lower. 

It  was  rather  a  shock  to  Jeremy,  this  first  practical  illus- 
tration of  the  pervading  truth  that  in  order  to  get  money 
you  must  have  some  first.  He  might  give  all  he  had  in 
the  world,  and  not  realise  five  thousand  pounds.  He 
went  to  tea  at  the  Raymores'  that  evening  with  his  spirits 
dashed.  He  had  consulted  Alec  Turner,  but  that  young 
man  had  only  whistled,  implying  thereby  that  Jeremy 
might  whistle  for  the  money  too.  The  journalistic  tem- 
perament was  not,  Jeremy  felt,  naturally  sympathetic;  so 
he  laid  the  question  before  Mrs.  Raymore. 

To  her  it  was  the  opening  of  the  sluice-gates.  She  was 
full  of  maternal  love,  dammed  up  by  distance  and  absence. 
She  was  tender  and  affectionte  toward  Eva,  but  her  love 
for  her  daughter  was  pale  and  weak  beside  her  feeling  for 
her  only  son ;  and  now  a  portion  of  the  flow  meant  for  far- 
off  Charley  was  diverted  to  Jeremy.  She  loved  and  could 
have  wept  over  his  brave  simplicity,  his  sincere  question 
as  to  how  he  could  speedily  make  five  thousand  pounds. 
He  was  not  a  fool ;  he  knew  he  could  not  break  the  bank 
at  Monte  Carlo,  or  write  a  play  or  a  novel,  or  get  the  de- 
sired sum  thereby  if  he  did;  but  he  had  the  great  folly 
which  clings  to  men  older  than  he  was — the  belief  that 
blind  impartial  fortune  may  show  special  divine  favour. 
Kate  Raymore  smiled  and  sighed. 

"Have  you  no  friends  who  would  guarantee  it— who 


180  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

would  advance  it?     You  could  pay  interest,  and  pay  off 

the  capital  gradually,"  she  suggested. 

That  was  not  at  all  Jeremy's  idea. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  I  don't  want  to  be  in- 
debted to  anybody." 

"But  it's  a  pity  to  let  the  chance  slip,  from  a  feeling  of 
that  sort,"  she  urged. 

"Besides  there's  nobody  in  our  family  who  ever  had  such 
a  lot  of  money  to  spare,"  said  Jeremy,  descending  to  the 
practical.  He  sighed  too,  and  acknowledged  the  first  check 
to  his  ardent  hopes,  the  first  disillusionment,  in  the  words : 
"I  must  wait."  When  a  man  says  that  he  must  wait,  he 
has  begun  to  know  something  of  the  world.  The  lesson 
that  often  he  must  wait  in  vain  remains  behind. 

"But  I  shall  find  out  some  way,"  he  went  on  (the 
second  lesson  still  unlearnt).  "I've  got  a  fortnight  to 
give  my  answer  in.  They'll  keep  it  open  for  me  till 
then." 

Eva  came  in,  with  her  large  learning  eyes,  and  her  early 
charming  girl's  wonder  at  the  strength  and  cleverness  of 
the  young  men  she  liked.  In  a  very  few  minutes  Jeremy 
was  confident  and  gay,  telling  her  how  he  had  the  prospect 
of  a  partnership  in  quite  a  little  while.  Oh,  yes,  a  junior 
partnership,  of  course,  and  a  minor  share.  But  it  ought 
to  be  worth  four  or  five  hundred  a  year  anyhow — yes,  to 
start  with.  And  what  it  might  come  to — in  vigorous  hands, 
with  new  blood,  new  intellect,  new  energy — well,  nobody 
could  tell.  Mr.  Thrale's  casks  and  vats  were  not  really — 
as  a  potentiality  of  growing  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of 
avarice — comparable  to  Jeremy's  vats  and  mordants  and 
muriates.  Eva  was  wonderfully  impressed,  and  exclaimed, 
in  childish  banter: 

"I  hope  you'll  know  us  still,  after  you're  as  rich  as  that!" 
Jeremy  liked  that.    It  was  just  the  sort  of  feeling  which 


FOR  HIS  LOVE  181 

his  wealth  was  destined  to  raise  in  Dora  Hutting.  Mean- 
while, pending  the  absence  and  obduracy  of  Dora,  it  was 
not  unpleasant  to  see  it  reflected  in  Eva's  wondering  eyes. 
Mrs.  Raymore  listened  and  looked  on  with  a  fixed  de- 
termination to  lose  no  time  in  telling  Grantley  Imason 
that  for  a  matter  of  five  thousand  pounds  the  happiness 
of  a  life — of  a  life  or  two — was  to  be  had.  The  figure 
was  often  cheaper  than  that,  of  course;  less  than  that  often 
meant  joy  or  woe — far  less.  Witness  Charley  in  Buenos 
Ayres,  over  youthful  folly  and  a  trifle  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty !  But  Grantley  was  rich — and  she  did  not  know  that 
he  had  recently  lent  John  Fanshaw  fifteen  thousand 
pounds. 

In  requital  for  services  rendered  at  the  Metropolitan 
Radical,  Jeremy  had  introduced  his  friend  Alec  Turner 
to  the  Selfords.  Alec  had  come  up  to  town  from  the  staff 
of  a  provincial  journal,  and  found  very  few  houses  open 
to  him  in  London,  so  that  he  was  grateful.  He  had  a  na- 
tive, although  untrained,  liking  for  art,  and  could  talk 
about  pictures  to  Selford,  while  Jeremy  talked  about  dogs 
to  Mrs.  Selford;  and  both  the  young  men  sparred  with 
Anna,  whose  shrewd  hits  kept  them  well  on  their  defence. 
Alec  went  about  his  avocations  in  a  red  tie,  a  turned-down 
collar,  and  lively  mustard-coloured  clothes.  A  dress  suit 
he  assumed  reluctantly  when  he  was  sent  to  report  the 
speeches  of  prosperous  Philistine  persons  at  public  dinners. 
He  hated  prosperous  Philistine  persons,  especially  if  their 
prosperity  (and  consequent  Philistinity)  came  from  art  or 
letters,  and  delighted  in  composing  paragraphs  which 
should  give  them  a  little  dig.  He  was,  however,  not  really 
ill-natured,  and  would  not  have  hurt  the  prosperous  per- 
sons seriously,  even  if  he  could  have;  he  was  anxious  to 
declare  that  neither  he  nor  anybody  else  could,  in  fact,  hurt 
them  seriously,  owing  to  the  stupidity  of  the  public — which 


1 82  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

was  incalculable.  He  was  a  decided  assistance  to  Jeremy 
in  enlivening  the  Selford  household  and  in  keeping  Anna's 
wits  busy  and  bright. 

"I  suppose  nothing  would  induce  you  to  be  successful?'' 
she  said  to  him  with  malicious  simplicity. 

"Success  for  me  means  something  quite  different,"  Alec 
explained.  "It  lies  in  influencing  the  trend  of  public 
opinion." 

"But  the  public's  hopelessly  stupid!  It  seems  to  me 
rather  foolish  to  spend  your  time  trying  to  influence  hope^ 
lessly  stupid  people." 

Jeremy  chuckled.  He  did  not  see  how  Alec  was  going 
to  get  out  of  that. 

"I  spoke  of  the  bulk.  There  is  a  small  intelligent 
minority  on  whom  one  can  rely." 

"If  you  can  rely  on  them  already,  why  do  they  want 
influencing?"  objected  Anna. 

"On  whom  one  can  rely  for  a  hearing  and  for  intelli- 
gent appreciation,  Miss  Selford." 

"Then  the  fewer  people  who  care  what  you  say,  the 
more  successful  you  really  are?" 

"That's  hardly  the  way  I  should  put  it " 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  you  would,"  interrupted  Anna. 
"But  it  comes  to  that,  doesn't  it,  Jeremy?" 

"Of  course  it  does,"  agreed  Jeremy.  "The  fact  is, 
writing  about  things  is  all  rot.  Go  and  do  something — 
something  practical." 

Dyeing  was  doing  something  practical. 

"Oh,  yes,  go  into  business,  of  course,  and  get  rich  by 
cheating !     Trading's  only  another  name  for  cheating." 

"Well,  you're  right  there  for  once,"  said  Anna. 

"Right?"  cried  Jeremy  fiercely.  "Well,  then,  why  isn't 
it  cheating  when  he"  (he  pointed  scornfully  at  Alec) 
"charges  a  ha'penny  for  his  beastly  opinion  about  some- 
thing?" 


FOR  HIS  LOVE  183 

"Oh,  it's  not  for  me  to  say !  You  must  ask  Mr.  Turner 
that." 

In  fact  the  discussions  were  of  a  most  spirited  order, 
since  everybody  was  always  quite  wrong,  and  each  in  turn 
could  be  rapidly  and  ignominiously  refuted,  the  other  two 
uniting  in  a  warm  but  transient  alliance  to  that  end. 

This  young  and  breezy  society  was  good  for  Selford, 
and  for  his  wife  too.  It  gave  them  something  to  think 
about,  and  did  not  leave  each  so  much  time  to  consider 
the  unreasonableness  of  the  other.  Tiffs  became  less  fre- 
quent, the  false  sentimentalism  of  their  reconciliations  was 
less  in  demand;  and  as  they  watched  Anna's  deftness  and 
brightness,  they  began  to  ask  whether  they  had  been  as 
proud  of  her  as  they  ought  to  be. 

"She's  got  brains,  that  girl  of  ours,"  said  Selford,  nod- 
ding his  head  complacently. 

"And  a  taking  manner,  don't  you  think,  Dick?" 

"Those  boys  find  her  attractive,  or  it  looks  like  it,  any- 
how!" 

"Of  course  she's  not  exactly  pretty,  but  I  do  think  she's 
rather  distinguished  somehow." 

"Your  daughter  would  be  sure  to  be  that,  my  dear 
Janet,"  he  remarked  gallantly. 

"No,  I  really  think  she's  more  like  you,"  insisted  Janet 
amiably.  "I  must  make  an  effort"  (Mrs.  Selford  was 
fond  of  that  phrase)  "and  take  her  out  into  society  more. 
I  don't  think  we're  quite  giving  her  her  chance." 

"Ah,  you've  begun  to  think  of  match-making!"  he  cried 
in  playful  reproof. 

But  it  pleased  him  highly  to  think  that  he  had,  after 
all,  an  attractive  daughter.  He  took  much  more  notice 
of  her  than  he  had  been  used  to  take,  and  Mrs.  Selford 
eyed  her  with  critical  affection.  Decidedly  the  increase 
of  human  interest,  as  opposed  to  artistic  and  canine,  was 
a  good  influence  in  the  Selford  household. 


1 84  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Anna  soon  saw  how  her  position  had  improved.  She 
was  not  demonstrative  about  it,  but  she  appreciated  it. 
She  was  also  sharp  enough  to  use  it.  The  next  time  an 
invitation  to  a  party  came,  she  refused  to  go  unless  she 
might  have  a  frock  of  her  own  choosing. 

"I  won't  go  if  I'm  to  look  a  guy!"  she  said. 

There  was  a  battle  over  that,  a  battle  between  her  and 
Mrs.  Selford,  and  a  tiff  between  father  and  mother  to  boot. 
For  Selford  was  with  Anna  now.  They  won  the  day,  and 
Anna,  with  a  cheque  in  her  pocket,  went  off  to  consult 
Christine  Fanshaw,  nursing  in  her  heart  that  joy  which 
only  the  prospect  of  being  dressed  really  just  as  you'd  like 
to  be  dressed  seems  able  to  excite. 

uMerely  a  malicious  desire  to  cut  out  the  other  girls," 
commented  Alec  loftily. 

"I  really  don't  think  you  ought  to  talk  about  dress," 
retorted  Anna,  eyeing  the  mustard  suit. 

But  when  Anna  appeared  in  the  frock  which  Christine 
had  sedulously  and  lovingly  planned,  she  carried  all  be- 
fore her.     She  was  most  undoubtedly  distinguished. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you've  come  to  an  age  when  that 
charming  simplicity  which  used  to  suit  you  so  well  must 
give  way  to  something  more  stylish,"  even  Mrs.  Selford 
admitted,  capitulating  and  marching  out — but  with  the 
honours  of  war. 

Grantley  Imason  was  rich;  yet  fifteen  thousand  pounds 
is  a  solid  sum  of  money.  To  put  that  sum  at  John  Fan- 
shaw's  disposal  had  not  caused  him  serious  inconvenience, 
but  it  had  entailed  a  little  contriving.  To  lay  out  another 
five  thousand  in  Jeremy's  service  would  involve  more  con- 
triving, and  the  return  of  the  money  rested,  of  necessity, 
in  a  distant  and  contingent  future.  Nevertheless,  when 
Kate  Raymore  suggested  that  the  happiness  of  a  life 
should  be  secured,   he  found  the  proposition  attractive. 


FOR  HIS  LOVE  185 

He  was  a  man  lavish  of  money  and  appreciative  of 
all  the  various  pleasures  of  giving  it  away — both  those 
of  a  more  and  those  of  a  less  self-regarding  order.  He 
enjoyed  both  the  delight  of  the  recipient  and  the  sense 
of  his  own  generosity  and  his  own  power.  He  would 
like  Jeremy  to  be  indebted  to  him  for  the  happiness  of 
his  life — of  course  that  was  an  exaggerated  way  of  put- 
ting it,  but  it  was  a  telling  exaggeration.  He  also 
liked  Jeremy  very  much  for  his  own  sake.  And  it  would 
be  altogether  a  handsome  thing  to  do — under  present 
circumstances  a  peculiarly  handsome  thing.  For  Sibylla 
had  left  him  and  gone  down  to  Milldean,  accompanied 
by  the  boy,  without  a  word  of  friendship  or  a  hint  of 
reconciliation;  and  Jeremy's  welfare  was  very  dear  to  his 
sister.  To  help  Jeremy,  and  thereby  prepare  for  her  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Jeremy  prosper,  to  do  this  secretly, 
to  have  it  as  a  private  merit  and  a  hidden  claim  on  her, 
was  an  idea  which  appealed  strongly  to  Grantley.  In 
his  imaginings  she  was  to  discover  what  he  had  done  in 
the  future,  but  not  till  after  their  reconciliation.  Would 
it  not  have  an  effect  then?  One  effect  it  was  to  have 
was,  in  plain  words,  to  make  Sibylla  feel  ashamed; 
but  Grantley  did  not  put  it  so  simply  or  so  nakedly  as 
that — that  would  have  been  to  recognise  the  action  as 
almost  pure  revenge.  He  blinked  that  side  of  it,  and 
gave  prominence  to  the  other  sides.  But  that  side  was 
there  among  the  rest;  and  he  would  suffer  wrong  at  her 
hands  with  the  more  endurance  the  greater  were  the 
obligations  she  was  under  to  him.  His  love  for  her  and 
his  quarrel  with  her  joined  hands  to  urge  him.  Com- 
manding Kate  Raymore  to  respect  his  desire  for  secrecy, 
he  undertook  to  consider  the  matter.  But  his  mind 
was  really  made  up;  and  since  the  thing  was  to  be  done, 
it   should   be   done   liberally   and   splendidly.      He   had 


186  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

lent  his  money  to  Fanshaw,  as  Caylesham  had  surmised, 
with  a  very  satisfactory  prospect  of  repayment;  to  Jeremy 
he  was  ready  to  lend  it  on  no  security,  careless  about  repay- 
ment, because  he  loved  Sibylla  and  because  he  had  so 
grievous  a  quarrel  against  her.  It  was  all  a  part  of  his 
broad  and  consistent  plan  of  conquering  her  by  his  un- 
changing patience,  unchanging  love,  unchanging  persis- 
tence in  being  just  what  he  had  always  been  to  her  from 
the  beginning,  however  sore  a  trial  her  unreasonableness 
and  her  vagaries  might  put  him  to.  This  generosity  to 
Jeremy  would  be  a  fine  example  of  his  chosen  attitude, 
a  fine  move  in  the  strategy  on  which  he  had  staked  the 
ultimate  success  of  his  campaign  against  Sibylla. 

"If  I  decide  to  do  it,  I'll  tell  Sibylla  myself,  at  my  own 
time,  and  in  my  own  way — remember  that,"  he  said  to 
Kate  Raymore. 

She  had  an  idea  that  things  had  not  been  going  quite 
smoothly,  and  nodded  in  a  wise  fashion.  She  was  pictur- 
ing a  pretty  scene  of  sentiment  when  Grantley  confessed 
his  generosity.  Of  the  real  state  of  his  mind  she  had  no 
idea,  but  her  own  conception  of  the  case  was  enough  to 
ensure  her  silence. 

Grantley  went  to  work  quietly,  saying  nothing  to 
Jeremy,  approaching  the  working  partners  through  Sel- 
ford,  learning  what  they  thought  of  Jeremy,  not  letting 
them  suppose  that  the  sum  required  was  lightly  to  be 
come  by  or  was  considered  a  small  one,  making,  like  a 
good  man  of  business,  the  best  bargain  that  he  could  for 
the  object  of  his  bounty.  These  negotiations  took  some 
days,  and  during  those  days  Jeremy's  heart  lost  something 
of  its  buoyancy,  though  nothing  of  its  courage.  London 
was  having  its  effect  on  his  receptive  mind — the  crowd,  the 
stress,  the  push,  the  competition.  Courage  and  brains 
enough  to  rise  by?     Perhaps,  but  not  enough  to  rise  by 


FOR  HIS  LOVE  187 

quickly.  A  walk  about  the  streets,  a  look  at  the  news- 
papers, the  talk  at  the  Metropolitan  Radical,  all  taught 
him  that.  Wait  and  work — wait  and  work!  That  was 
what  they  all  said — and  they  none  of  them  said  that  it  was 
easy  to  lay  your  hands  on  five  thousand  pounds. 

The  light  of  truth  began  to  glimmer  through  those 
folds  of  young  self-confidence.  Jeremy  grew  sober;  he 
was  no  more  so  gay  and  so  assured  in  talking  with  Eva 
Raymore.  He  allowed  himself  to  dwell  less  on  that  myth- 
ical return  to  Milldean  with  fame  and  riches.  Now  and 
then,  it  must  be  confessed,  he  had  to  brace  himself  up  lest 
his  very  courage  should  falter.  He  contrived  to  keep  it; 
but  with  it  there  came  now  a  feeling  new  to  Jeremy — a 
humility,  a  sense  that  he  was,  after  all,  as  other  men  were, 
and  neither  by  natural  endowment  nor  by  any  rare  caprice 
of  fortune  to  be  different  from  them  or  to  find  his  life  other 
than  theirs.  He  too  was  not  above  the  need  of  a  helping 
hand;  for  want  of  it  he  too  might  have  to  tread  very  long 
and  very  dreary  paths  before  he  made  much  impression 
on  the  hill  which  he  had  set  out  to  climb  so  gaily,  and  with 
so  little  provender  for  the  journey.  In  such  a  mood  as 
this  he  was  as  incapable  of  expecting  any  sudden  inter- 
position of  outside  aid  as  of  refusing  it  when  it  came.  He 
would  protest,  he  would  declare  that  he  must  refuse,  but 
refuse  in  the  end  he  could  not.  The  fierce  jealousy  of  his 
independence  was  cooled  by  his  new  experience  of  the 
world. 

He  heard  first  of  what  was  being  done  from  one  of  the 
partners  down  at  Romford.  The  matter  was  practically 
concluded,  he  was  told;  in  two  years'  time  he  was  to  have 
the  junior  partnership,  and  the  share  allotted  to  him  at  that 
date  would  be  somewhat  larger  in  consideration  of  the 
stipulated  capital  being  paid  immediately — it  happened  to 
be  wanted  for  an  extension  of  the  buildings.    Jeremy  threw 


1 88  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

over  work  for  that  day,  and  hurried  back  to  London — to 
refuse.  But  all  the  way  he  was  thinking  of  the  incredible 
difference  this  benevolent  interposition  would  make. 

He  found  Grantley  in  his  study  after  lunch.  The  deed 
regulating  the  arrangements  between  the  partners  on  the 
one  side  and  Jeremy  and  himself  on  the  other  was  before 
him.    A  look  at  Jeremy's  face  told  him  that  Jeremy  knew. 

"I — I  can't  take  it,  you  know,"  Jeremy  blurted  out. 

"You  can't  escape  the  obligations  Sibylla  has  brought 
on  you  by  marrying  me,"  smiled  Grantley. 

"Of  course  Sibylla's  been  at  you — told  you  she  couldn't 
be  happy  unless " 

"Nothing  of  the  kind.  Sibylla  knows  nothing  about  it; 
and,  what's  more,  she  isn't  to  know  till  I  choose  to  tell  her 
— till  I  choose,  not  you — that's  part  of  the  bargain,  Jere- 
my." 

Jeremy  sat  down.  Anxious  to  avoid  a  formal  talking- 
over  of  the  matter,  Grantley  got  up  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Then  why  have  you  done  it?"  asked  Jeremy. 

Grantley  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Of  course  it's  the  one  thing  in  the  world  for  me ;  but — 
but  I  wanted  to  do  it  for  myself,  you  know."  Grantley 
still  smiled  on  him,  with  a  touch  of  mockery  now.  "Yes, 
well,  I  know  I  couldn't."  He  looked  at  Grantley  in  a  puz- 
zled way.  "What  makes  it  worse,"  he  went  on,  "is  that 
I've  been  doing  you  an  injustice  in  a  kind  of  way.  I  knew 
you  were  always  kind  and — and  jolly,  but  somehow  I 
thought  you  were  a  fellow  who  wouldn't  put  himself  out 
very  much  for — for  anybody  else." 

"I'm  not  putting  myself  out.    I  like  it." 

"Planking  down  five  thousand,  and  not  knowing  when 
you'll  get  it  back,  if  you  ever  do?  If  you  like  that  for  its 
own  sake,  it's  rather  a  rare  taste." 

"Now  don't  jaw  any  more,"  said  Grantley  with  friendly 


FOR  HIS  LOVE  189 

impatience.  "I  was  just  going  to  sign  the  deed  when  you 
came  in.  I  should  have  done  it  by  now,  but  I  must  have 
a  witness,  and  I  didn't  want  to  ring  Thompson  up  from 
his  dinner.     We'll  ring  for  him  now." 

"I'm  not  an  ass,"  said  Jeremy.  I  don't  think  that  be- 
cause a  man  marries  a  woman  he's  bound  to  provide  for 
her  family — or  to  like  them  either." 

"You  grow  in  worldly  wisdom." 

"Yes,  I  fancy  I  do.  I  know  a  bit  more  about  myself 
too.  I  might  have  worked  ten  years  and  not  got  this 
money." 

"Oh,  thank  my  forefathers !  I've  not  worked  ten  years, 
or  ten  minutes  either,  for  you."  His  back  had  been  to 
Jeremy.  He  turned  round  now  as  he  said  slowly:  "You 
may  consider  it  as  a  thanksoffering  for  my  happiness  with 
Sibylla." 

"And  why  isn't  she  to  know?" 

"I  like  it  better  that  way  for  the  present.  I'm  entitled 
to  make  that  condition." 

Jeremy  went  back  to  his  defence  of  himself  against  him- 
self. 

"A  week  ago  I — I'd  have  backed  myself  to  make  it 
somehow.  But — well,  one  soon  learns  how  devilish  hard 
it  is  to  get  what  one  wants.  What  a  conceited  young  idiot 
you  must  have  thought  me  when  we  used  to  talk  down  at 
Milldean!" 

"You  were  always  an  excellent  companion.  Let's  ring 
for  Thompson  and  execute  the  deed." 

Jeremy  could  not  refuse,  and  could  not  yet  consent. 
Grantley  stood  smoking  airily  and  looking  at  him  with 
a  whimsical  smile.  Then  the  door  opened  and  the  butler 
came  in,  unsummoned. 

"Ah,  the  Fates  decide!"  exclaimed  Grantley  with  a 
laugh.     "Where's  a  pen,  Jeremy?" 


i9o  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"For  you,  sir,"  said  Thompson,  holding  out  a  salver 
with  a  letter  on  it. 

"Oh !"  Grantley  laid  down  his  pen,  took  the  letter,  and 
sat  down  at  the  writing-table.  "Wait  a  minute;  I  want 
you  to  witness  something  for  me,"  he  said  to  the  butler. 

Thompson  stood  in  serene  immobility.  His  thoughts 
were  far  away,  engrossed  in  a  discussion  he  had  been 
having  with  the  groom  as  to  the  "form"  of  that  same 
horse  of  Caylesham's  about  which  Mrs.  Bolton  had  want- 
ed to  know.  Jeremy  sat  making  up  his  mind  to  endure 
being  helped,  and  poignantly  remorseful  about  the  view 
he  had  taken  of  Grantley.  The  view  was  earnestly  dis- 
claimed now;  the  help  seemed  very  fine  and  wonderful. 
He  did  so  want  hope,  scope,  a  chance,  a  start,  and  that  all 
his  talk  of  what  he  would  do  should  not  come  to  naught. 
In  turn  Dora,  Eva,  and  Anna  passed  through  his  mind, 
each  bringing  her  own  influence  to  bear,  giving  him  a  new 
picture  of  the  future.  And  why  refuse?  If  ever  a  gift 
had  been  freely,  grandly  offered,  this  was.  Would  it  not 
be  even  churlish  to  refuse?  Reasons  or  no  reasons,  his 
heart  and  his  hand  went  out  instinctively;  he  could  not 
refuse  the  beginning  of  all  things. 

Giving  his  head  a  restless  little  jerk  as  at  last  he  ac- 
cepted this  decision,  he  chanced  to  turn  his  eyes  on  Grant- 
ley's  face.  His  attention  was  caught  and  arrested  by  it. 
There  was  something  strange  there.  The  cheeks  were 
rather  pale,  the  jaw  set  rigidly.  Grantley  read  his  letter 
with  a  curious  engrossment — not  hurriedly  nor  offhand,  as 
a  man  generally  reads  when  other  business  is  at  a  standstill 
till  he  reaches  the  end.  He  turned  back,  it  seemed,  once 
or  twice,  to  look  at  another  sentence  again.  Jeremy  could 
not  stop  staring  at  him.  Even  Thompson  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  being  kept  waiting  a  long  while,  and  that 
the  groom  would  probably  finish  the  beer  and  go  away, 


FOR  HIS  LOVE  191 

leaving    their    important    discussion    unfinished    and    the 
proper  odds  unascertained. 

Grantley  had  recognised  Christine  Fanshaw's  large  ir- 
regular handwriting,  and  had  expected  nothing  more  seri- 
ous than  an  invitation  to  dinner.  But  he  was  not  reading 
an  invitation  to  dinner  now. 

"I  have  just  heard  from  Sibylla — from  Milldean.  She 
encloses  a  letter  for  you,  which  she  says  I  am  to  send  on 
to  you  to-morrow.  She  insists  that  I  am  not  to  send  it  be- 
fore; and  if  I  won't  do  as  she  asks,  I  am  to  burn  it.  You 
are  not  to  have  it  to-day.  I  cannot  disobey  her  in  this;  but 
she  says  nothing  about  my  telling  you  she  has  sent  a  letter ; 
the  only  thing  is  that  I  must  not  deliver  it  to  you  till  to-mor- 
row. I  had  no  idea  you  had  let  her  go  down  to  Milldean 
alone.  How  could  you  let  her  do  this  ?  There  is  one  other 
thing  I  must  say  to  you.  Walter  Blake  was  to  have  dined 
here  to-night.  This  morning  he  wired  excuses,  saying  he 
was  going  for  a  cruise  in  his  yacht.  You  must  consider 
what  that  means.  I  beg  you  not  to  wait  for  the  letter,  but 
to  go  to  Milldean  this  afternoon.  Say  nothing  of  having 
heard  from  me.  Just  go  as  if  it  was  by  accident;  say  you 
got  your  work  done  sooner  than  you  expected,  or  anything 
you  like;  but  go.  I  believe  you'll  be  sorry  all  your  life  if 
you  don't  go.  Let  nothing  stop  you,  for  your  own  sake, 
and  still  more  for  hers. — C.  F," 

That  was  the  letter;  the  sentence  he  had  turned  back 
to  re-read  was  the  one  in  which  Walter  Blake's  movements 
were  mentioned. 

Grantley  looked  across  to  Jeremy. 

"Have  you  heard  from  Sibylla  since  she  went  to  Mill- 
dean?" he  asked. 

"Not  a  line.     But  she  doesn't  write  much  to  me." 


192  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Again  Grantley  looked  at  the  paper.  Then  he  laid  it 
down  and  took  up  his  pen. 

"Now  for  the  deed,"  he  said,  and  drew  it  to  him. 

He  signed.  Thompson  fulfilled  the  formality  for  which 
he  was  required,  and  then  left  them  alone.  Jeremy  did 
not  break  out  into  new  thanks.  That  unexplained  some- 
thing in  Grantley's  face  forbade  him. 

"I  can  only  say  that  I'll  try  to  justify  your  extraordinary 
kindness,"  he  said  soberly. 

Grantley  nodded  absently,  as  he  rose  and  put  Christine's 
letter  into  the  fire.  It  was  better  there — and  there  was  no 
danger  that  he  would  forget  the  contents. 

"I  say,  there's  no  bad  news,  is  there?"  Jeremy  could  not 
help  asking. 

"No  news  at  all,  good  or  bad,"  answered  Grantley,  as 
he  held  out  his  hand.    "Good-bye  and  good  luck,  Jeremy." 

Jeremy  took  his  hand  and  gripped  it  hard,  emotion  find- 
ing a  vent  that  way.  Grantley  returned  the  pressure  more 
moderately. 

"Remember,  under  no  circumstances  a  word  about  it  to 
Sibylla !"  he  said. 

"I  give  you  my  honour." 

"Good." 

He  released  Jeremy's  hand  and  turned  away.  He  had 
much  self-control,  but  he  could  not  be  sure  of  what  was 
showing  on  his  face. 

Jeremy  had  his  great  good-fortune,  but  his  joy  was 
dashed.  Grantley  looked  like  a  man  whom  heavy  calamity 
finds  unprepared. 

"All  the  finer  of  him  to  sign  the  deed  then  and  there," 
Jeremy  muttered  as  he  left  the  house.  "Whatever  has  hap- 
pened, he  didn't  forget  his  word  to  me." 

But  it  was  not  of  Jeremy  or  of  his  word  that  Grantley 
had  been  thinking  when  he  signed.  His  signature  was  a 
defiance  of  his  wife  and  of  his  fate. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

IN    THE   TEETH   OF   THE   STORM 

AN  instinct  of  furtiveness,  newly  awakened  by  the 
suggestion  of  Christine  Fanshaw's  letter,  had  led 
Grantley  Imason  to  send  no  word  of  his  coming. 
He  hired  a  fly  at  the  station,  and  drove  over  the  downs  to 
Milldean.  It  was  a  wild  evening.  A  gale  had  been  blow- 
ing from  the  south-west  all  day,  and  seemed  to  be  increas- 
ing in  violence.  A  thick  rain  was  driven  in  sharp  spats 
against  the  closed  windows.  The  old  horse  toiled  slowly 
along,  while  the  impatient  man  chafed  helplessly  inside. 

At  last  he  stopped  at  Old  Mill  House  and  dismissed 
the  carriage.  Mrs.  Mumple's  servant-girl  came  to  the 
door,  and  said  her  mistress  was  up  at  his  house,  and  was, 
she  thought,  to  stay  there  all  night.  Grantley  nodded, 
and  began  to  trudge  up  the  hill.  He  had  no  thought  but 
to  seek  and  find  Sibylla.  It  was  now  between  seven  and 
eight,  and  dusk  had  fallen. 

He  saw  a  light  in  the  dining-room  windows.  He 
walked  into  the  hall  and  took  off  his  hat.  A  servant  saw 
him  and  ran  to  help  him.  Saying  briefly  that  he  would 
want  some  dinner,  he  went  into  the  dining-room.  Mrs. 
Mumple  sat  there  alone  over  a  chop. 

"You  come  home,  Mr.  Imason!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Sibylla  didn't  expect  you,  did  she?" 

"No,  I  didn't  expect  to  come.  I  didn't  think  I  could 
get  away,  and  it  wasn't  worth  wiring.    Where  is  Sibylla  ?" 

"How  unlucky !  She's  gone  away — to  Fairhaven.  She 
didn't  expect  you.     She's  to  sleep  the  night  there." 

He  came  to  the  table  and  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of 
sherry.     He  was  calm  and  quiet  in  his  manner. 

'93 


i94  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"To  sleep  at  Fairhaven?  Why,  who's  she  going  to 
stay  with?" 

"Mrs.  Valentine.  You  know  her?  She  lives  by  the 
church — a  red  house  with  creepers." 

Mrs.  Valentine  was,  as  he  knew,  an  old,  but  not  an 
intimate,  acquaintance.  He  shot  a  keen  glance  at  Mrs. 
Mumple's  simple  broad  face. 

"I'm  here  to  look  after  baby.  But,  of  course,  since 
you've  come " 

"No,  no,  you  stay  here;  and  go  on  with  your  dinner. 
They'll  bring  something  for  me  directly." 

He  pulled  up  a  chair  and  sat  down. 

"To  sleep  at  Mrs.  Valentine's?  Has  she  often  done 
that  before  when  I've  been  away?" 

"She  used  to  as  a  girl  sometimes,  Mr.  Imason;  but  no, 
never  lately,  I  think — not  since  she  married." 

There  were  no  signs  of  disturbance  or  distress  about 
Mrs.  Mumple.  Grantley  sat  silent  while  the  servant  laid 
a  place  for  him  and  promised  some  dinner  in  ten  minutes. 

"Has  Sibylla  been  all  right?" 

"Oh,  yes.  A  little  fretful  the  last  day  or  two,  I  think. 
But  Mr.  Blake  came  over  from  Fairhaven  yesterday,  and 
she  had  a  nice  walk  with  him;  and  she  was  with  baby  all 
the  morning." 

"All  the  morning?    When  did  she  go  to  Fairhaven?" 

"I  think  it  was  about  three  o'clock.  It's  a  terrible  even- 
ing, Mr.  Imason." 

"Very  rough  indeed." 

"The  wind  rose  quite  suddenly  this  morning,  and  it's 
getting  worse  every  minute." 

Grantley  made  no  answer.  After  a  pause  the  old 
woman  went  on: 

"I've  got  some  news." 

"News   have  you?    What  news?" 


THE  STORM  195 

He  was  suddenly  on  the  alert. 

She  glanced  at  the  door  to  make  sure  the  servant  was 
not  within  hearing. 

"Very  great  news  for  me,  Mr.  Imason.  My  dear 
husband's  to  come  home  three  months  sooner  than  I 
thought.    I  got  a  letter  to  say  so  just  after  Sibylla  started." 

"Oh,  really  !     Capital,  Mrs.  Mumple  I" 

"It's  only  a  matter  of  six  months  now.  You  can't  think 
what  I  feel  about  it — now  it's  as  near  as  that,  I  haven't 
seen  him  for  hard  on  ten  years.  What  will  it  be  like? 
I'm  full  of  joy,  Mr.  Imason;  but  somehow  I'm  afraid  too 
— terribly  afraid.  The  thought  of  it  seems  to  upset  me, 
and  yet  I  can't  think  of  anything  else." 

Grantley  rubbed  his  hand  across  his  brow.  Old  Mrs. 
Mumple's  talk  reached  him  dimly.  He  was  thinking 
hard.  This  sleeping  at  Mrs.  Valentine's  sounded  an  un- 
likely story. 

Mrs.  Mumple,  in  her  turn,  forgot  her  chop.  She  leant 
back  in  her  chair,  clasping  her  fat  hands  in  front  of  her. 

"We  shall  have  to  pick  up  the  old  life."  She  went  on. 
"After  seventeen  years !  I  was  thirty-five  when  he  left  me, 
and  nearly  as  slight  as  Sibylla  herself.  I'm  past  fifty  now, 
Mr.  Imason,  and  it's  ten  years  since  I  saw  him;  and  he's 
above  sixty,  and — and  they  grow  old  soon  in  there.  It'll 
be  very  different,  very  different.  And — and  I'm  half  afraid 
of  it,  Mr.  Imason.  It's  terribly  hard  to  pick  up  a  life 
that's  once  been  broken." 

The  servant  brought  in  Grantley's  dinner,  and  Mrs. 
Mumple  pretended  to  go  on  with  her  chop. 

"Nurse  said  I  was  to  tell  you  Master  Frank  is  sleeping 
nicely,"  the  servant  said  to  Mrs.  Mumple,  as  he  placed  a 
chair  for  Grantley. 

That  was  a  strange  story  about  Mrs.  Valentine. 

"We  must  have  patience,  and  love  on,"  said  Mrs.  Mum- 


196  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

pie.     "He's  had  a  grievous  trial,  and  so  have  I.     But  I 

don't  lose  hope.     All's  ready  for  him — his  socks  and  his 

shirts  and  all.    I'm  ahead  of  the  time.     I've  nothing  to  do 

but  wait.    These  last  months'll  seem  very  long,  Mr.  Ima- 

son." 

Grantley  came  to  the  table. 

"You're  a  good  woman,  Mrs.  Mumple,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head  mournfully.  He  looked  at  the  food, 
pushed  it  away,  and  drank  another  glass  of  sherry. 

"Don't  think  I've  no  sympathy  with  you,  but — but  I'm 
worried." 

"Nothing  gone  wrong  in  town,  I  hope,  Mr.  Imason?" 

"No." 

He  stood  there  frowning.  He  did  not  believe  the  story 
about  Mrs.  Valentine.  He  walked  quickly  to  the  bell  and 
rang  it  loudly. 

"Tell  them  to  saddle  Rollo,  and  bring  him  round  di- 
rectly." 

"You're  never  going  out  on  such  a  night?"  she  cried. 

"I  must";  and  he  added  to  the  surprised  servant:  "Do 
as  I  tell  you  directly." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked  wonderingly. 

"I'm  going  to  Mrs.  Valentine's." 

"But  you've  no  cause  to  be  anxious  about  Sibylla,  Mr. 
Imason;  and  she'll  be  back  to-morrow." 

Grantley  was  convinced  that  she,  at  least,  was  innocent 
of  any  plot.  Simple  sincerity  spoke  on  her  face,  and  all 
her  thoughts  were  for  herself  and  her  dearly  cherished 
fearful  hopes. 

"I  must  see  Sibylla  on  a  matter  of  urgent  business  to- 
night," he  said. 

"It'll  be  hardly  safe  up  on  the  downs,"  she  expostu- 
lated. 

"It'll  be  safe  enough  for  me,"  he  answered  grimly. 


THE  STORM  197 

"Don't  sit  up  for  me;  and  look  after  the  baby."  He 
smiled  at  her  kindly,  then  came  and  patted  her  hand  for 
a  moment.  "Yes,  it  would  be  hard  to  pick  up  a  life  that's 
once  broken,  I  expect,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sudden  apprehension  in  her 
eyes.  His  manner  was  strangely  quiet;  he  seemed  to  her 
gentler. 

"There,  I  mean  nothing  but  what  I  say,"  he  told  her 
soothingly.     "I  must  go  and  get  ready  for  my  ride." 

"But,  Mr.  Imason,  you'll  take  something  to  eat  first?" 

"I  can't  eat."  He  laughed  a  little.  "I  should  like  to 
drink,  but  I  won't.     Good-night,  Mrs.  Mumple." 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  walking  his  horse  down  the 
hill  to  Milldean,  on  his  way  to  Fairhaven.  But  he  had 
little  thought  of  Mrs.  Valentine;  he  had  no  belief  in  that 
story  at  all.  It  served  a  purpose,  but  not  the  purpose  for 
which  it  had  been  meant.  What  it  did  was  to  remove  the 
last  of  his  doubts.  Now  he  knew  that  Christine's  sugges- 
tion was  true.  He  was  going  to  Fairhaven  not  to  find 
Sibylla  at  Mrs.  Valentine's,  but  to  seek  Sibylla  and  Blake 
he  knew  not  where. 

He  thought  not  much  of  Sibylla.  He  had  taught  him- 
self to  consider  his  wife  incalculable — a  prey  to  disordered 
whims,  swept  on  by  erratic  impulses.  This  whim  was  more 
extraordinary,  more  disorderly,  more  erratic  than  any  of 
the  others;  but  it  was  of  the  same  nature  with  them,  the 
same  kind  of  thing  that  she  had  done  when  she  deter- 
mined to  hold  herself  aloof  from  him.  This  blow  had 
fallen  entirely  and  utterly  unforeseen,  but  he  acknowledged 
grimly  that  it  had  not  been  unforeseeable.  He  thought 
even  less  of  young  Blake,  and  thought  of  him  without  much 
conscious  anger.  The  case  there  was  a  very  plain  one.  He 
had  known  young  Blake  in  the  days  when  aspirations  did 
not  exist,  and  when  the  desire  to  be  good  was  no  part  of 


198  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

his  life.  He  took  him  as  he  had  known  him  then,  and  the 
case  was  very  simple.  Whatever  an  attractive  woman  will 
give,  men  like  Blake  will  take,  recking  of  nothing,  fore- 
casting nothing,  careless  of  themselves,  merciless  to  her 
whom  they  are  by  way  of  loving.  In  regard  to  Blake  the 
thing  had  nothing  strange  in  it.  Here  too  it  was  unex- 
pected, but  again  by  no  means  unforeseeable. 

No,  nothing  had  been  unforeseeable;  and  in  what  light 
did  that  fact  leave  him?  What  flavour  should  that  give 
to  his  meditations?  For  though  he  rode  as  quickly  as  he 
could  against  the  gale  and  the  rain  which  now  blinded  and 
scorched  his  eyes,  his  mind  moved  more  quickly  still.  Why, 
it  set  him  down  as  a  fool  intolerable — as  the  very  thing  he 
had  always  laughed  at  and  despised,  as  a  dullard,  a  sim- 
pleton, a  dupe.  He  could  hear  the  mocking  laughter  and 
unashamed  chuckling,  he  could  see  the  winking  eyes.  He 
knew  well  enough  what  men  had  thought  of  him.  They 
had  attributed  to  him  successes  with  women ;  they  had  joked 
when  he  married,  saying  many  husbands  would  feel  safer; 
they  had  liked  him  and  admired  him,  but  they  had  been 
of  opinion  that  he  wanted  taking  down  a  peg.  How  they 
would  laugh  to  think  that  he  of  all  men  had  made  such 
a  mess  of  it,  that  he  had  let  young  Blake  take  away  his 
wife — Young  Blake,  whom  he  had  often  chaffed  for  their 
amusement  or  instructed  for  their  entertainment !  Imason 
had  got  a  pretty  wife,  but  he  couldn't  keep  her,  poor  old 
boy!  That  would  be  the  comment — an  ounce  of  pity  to 
a  hundredweight  of  contempt,  and — yes,  a  pound  of  satis- 
faction. And  it  would  be  all  true.  Somehow — even  al- 
lowing for  Sibylla's  vagaries  and  unaccountable  whims,  he 
could  not  tell  how — somehow  he  had  been  a  gross  dupe,  a 
blockhead  blindly  self-satisfied,  a  dullard  easily  deluded, 
a  fool  readily  abandoned  and  left,  so  intolerable  that  not 
all  his  money,  nor  his  houses,  nor  his  carriages  could  make 


THE  STORM  199 

it  worth  while  even  to  go  on  with  the  easy  task  of  deceiv- 
ing him.  He  was  not  worth  deceiving  any  more;  it  was 
simpler  to  be  rid  of  him.  In  the  eyes  of  the  world  that 
fact  would  be  very  significant  of  what  he  was.  And  that 
same  thing  he  was  in  his  own  eyes  now.  The  stroke  of  this 
sharp  sword  had  cloven  in  two  the  armour  of  his  pride; 
it  fell  off  him  and  left  him  naked. 

Could  he  endure  this  fate  for  all  his  life?  It  would 
last  all  his  life;  people  have  long  memories,  and  the  tradi- 
tion does  not  die.  It  would  not  die  even  with  his  life.  No, 
by  heaven,  it  would  not!  A  new  thought  seized  him. 
There  was  the  boy  to  whom  he  had  given  life.  What  had 
he  given  to  the  boy  now  ?  What  a  father  would  the  boy 
have  to  own?  And  what  of  the  boy's  mother?  The  story 
would  last  the  boy's  life  too.  It  would  always  be  between 
him  and  the  boy.  And  the  boy  would  never  dare  speak 
of  his  mother.  The  boy  would  be  kept  in  ignorance  till 
ignorance  yielded,  perforce,  to  shame.  His  son's  life  would 
be  bitterness  to  him,  if  it  meant  that — and  bitterness  surely 
to  the  boy  too.  As  he  brooded  on  this  his  face  set  into 
stiffness.     He  declared  that  it  was  not  to  be  endured. 

He  came  to  where  Milldean  road  joined  the  main  road 
by  the  red  villas,  and  turned  to  the  right  toward  Fairhaven. 
Here  he  met  the  full  force  of  the  gale.  The  wind  was  like 
a  moving  rushing  wall;  the  rain  seemed  to  hit  him  viciously 
with  whips;  there  was  a  great  confused  roar  from  the  sea 
below  the  cliffs.  He  could  hardly  make  headway  or  induce 
his  horse  to  breast  the  angry  tempest.  But  his  face  was 
firm,  his  hand  steady,  and  his  air  resolute  as  he  rode  down 
to  Fairhaven,  sore  in  the  eyes,  dripping  wet,  cold  to  the 
very  bone.  His  purpose  was  formed.  Fool  he  might  be, 
but  he  was  no  coward.  He  had  been  deluded,  he  was  not 
beaten.  His  old  persistence  came  to  his  rescue.  All 
through,  though  he  might  have  lost  everything  else,  he  had 


200  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

never  lost  courage.  And  now,  when  his  pride  fell  from 
him,  and  his  spirit  tasted  a  bitterness  as  though  of  death, 
his  courage  rose  high  in  him — a  desperate  courage  which 
feared  nothing  save  ridicule  and  shame.  These  he  would 
not  have,  neither  for  himself  nor  for  his  boy.  His  purpose 
was  taken,  and  he  rode  on.  His  pride  was  broken,  but  no 
man  was  to  behold  its  fall.  In  this  hour  he  asked  one  thing 
from  himself — courage  unfearing,  unflinching.  It  was  his, 
and  he  rode  forward  to  the  proof  of  it.  And  there  came 
in  him  a  better  pride.  In  place  of  self-complacency  there 
was  fortitude;  yet  it  was  the  fortitude  of  defiance,  not  of 
self-knowledge. 

He  rode  through  the  gale  into  Fairhaven,  thinking  noth- 
ing of  Mrs.  Valentine's  house,  waiting  on  fate  to  show  him 
the  way.  Just  where  the  town  begins,  the  road  comes  down 
to  the  sea,  and  runs  along  by  the  harbour  where  a  sea-wall 
skirts  deep  water.  A  man  enveloped  in  oilskins  stood  here, 
glistening  through  the  darkness  in  the  light  of  a  gas-lamp. 
He  was  looking  out  to  sea,  out  on  the  tumble  of  angry 
waves,  stamping  his  feet  and  blowing  on  his  wet  fingers 
now  and  then.  It  was  no  night  for  an  idle  man  to  be 
abroad;  he  who  was  out  to-night  had  business. 

"Rough  weather !"  called  Grantley,  bringing  his  horse 
to  a  stand. 

The  man  answered,  not  in  the  accents  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, but  with  a  Cockney  twang  and  a  turn  of  speech  learnt 
from  board-schools  and  newspapers.  He  was  probably  a 
seaman    then,  and  from  London. 

"Terribly  severe,"  he  said.  "No  night  to  keep  a  man 
on  the  look-out." 

He  looked  at  Grantley,  evidently  not  knowing  him. 

"A  bad  night  for  a  ride  too,  sir,"  he  added;  "but  it's 
better  to  be  moving  than  standing  here,  looking  for  a  boat 
that's  as  likely  to  come  as  the  Channel  Squadron !"  He 
spat  scornfully  as  he  ended. 


THE  STORM  201 

"Looking  for  a  boat?" 

For  the  moment  Grantley  was  glad  to  talk;  it  was  a  re- 
lief. Besides  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  going  to  do, 
and  caught  at  a  brief  respite  from  decision. 

"Aye,"  the  man  grumbled,  "a  boat  to  come  from  Ports- 
mouth. Best  luck  for  her  if  she's  never  started,  and  next 
best  if  she's  put  in  for  shelter  on  the  way.  She'd  never 
make  Fairhaven  to-night." 

"Then  what's  the  good  of  looking  for  her?" 

"Because  I  get  five  shillings  for  it.  The  owner's  waiting 
for  her — waiting  at  the  Sailors'  Rest  there."  He  pointed 
to  the  inn  a  hundred  yards  away.  "She  was  to  have  been 
here  by  midday,  and  he's  in  a  hurry.  Best  for  him  if  she 
doesn't  come,  if  he  means  to  sail  to-night,  as  he  says  he 
does."  He  paused  and  spat  again.  "Pretty  weather  for 
a  lady  to  go  to  sea,  ain't  it?"  he  ended  sarcastically. 

The  fates  were  with  Grantley  Imason.  They  sent  guid- 
ance. 

"What  boat  is  it?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"The  Ariadne"  ("Hairy  Adny,"  he  pronounced  the 
name). 

"Ah,  yes!     Mr.  Blake's  yacht?" 

"You  know  him,  sir?  Well,  you'll  find  him  and  his 
lady  at  the  'Rest'  there;  and  if  you're  a  friend  of  theirs, 
you  tell  'em  not  to  expect  her  to-night,  and  not  to  go  on 
board  her  if  she  comes." 

"Here's  another  shilling  for  you,  and  good-night." 

Grantley  rode  on  to  the  inn,  thanking  fate,  realising  now 
how  narrow  the  chance  had  been.  But  for  the  storm,  but 
for  the  wind  that  had  buffeted  and  almost  beaten  him, 
no  pride,  no  resolution,  would  have  been  of  any  avail. 
With  fair  weather  the  yacht  would  have  come  and  gone. 
He  saw  why  Christine  Fanshaw  was  not  to  deliver  his 
letter  till  the  morrow.    Without  the  storm,  no  pride,  no 


202  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

resolution,  no  courage  would  have  availed  him.  The 
Ariadne  would  have  put  to  sea,  and  Sibylla  would  have 
been  gone  for  ever.  Now,  thanks  to  fate,  she  was  not 
gone.  Grantley  drew  a  long  breath — the  breath  of  a  man 
whom  a  great  peril  has  narrowly  passed  by.  The  plan 
had  been  laid  well,  but  the  storm  had  thwarted  it.  There 
was  time  yet. 

Was  there?  That  question  could  not  but  rise  in  his 
mind.  He  faced  it  fairly  and  squarely,  and  jogged  on  to 
the  Sailor's  Rest. 

"Praise  to  this  fine  storm !"  he  cried  within  himself — 
to  the  storm  which  beat  and  raged,  which  had  feigned  to 
hinder  his  coming,  but  was  his  ally  and  friend.  Good  luck 
to  it !  It  had  served  his  turn  as  nothing  else  could.  And 
how  it  was  attuned  to  his  mood — to  the  fierce  stern  con- 
flict which  he  had  to  wage !  This  was  no  night  for  gentle- 
ness. There  were  nights  when  nature's  gentleness  mocked 
the  strife  to  which  her  own  decrees  condemned  the  race  of 
men.  But  to-night  she  herself  was  in  the  fight.  She  in- 
cited, she  cheered,  she  played  him  on;  and  she  had  given 
him  his  field  of  battle.  The  sense  of  helplessness  passed 
from  him.  He  was  arrayed  for  the  fight.  He  drank  in 
the  violent  salt  air  as  though  it  were  a  potion  magic  in 
power.     His  being  tingled  for  the  struggle. 

There  was  a  light  in  an  upper  window  of  the  Sailors' 
Rest.  The  blinds  were  not  drawn.  No,  the  pair  in  that 
room  were  looking  out  to  sea,  looking  for  the  boat  which 
did  not  come,  looking  in  vain  over  the  tumbling  riot  of 
waves.  But  stay !  Perhaps  they  looked  no  more  now ;  per- 
haps they  had  abandoned  that  hope  for  the  night.  Chris- 
tine was  not  to  deliver  his  letter  till  the  morrow ;  they  would 
think  that  they  had  to-night.  The  thought  brought  back 
his  pain  and  his  fierceness.  They  would  think  that  they 
had  to-night!     They  were  wrong  there;  but  it  was  ten 


THE  STORM  203 

o'clock.  "Ten  o'clock!"  he  muttered,  as  he  drew  rein  at 
the  door  of  the  Sailor's  Rest  and  cast  his  eyes  up  to  the 
light  in  the  window  over  his  head. 

Within,  young  Blake  was  turning  away  from  the  win- 
dow. 

"She  won't  come  to-night,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  they 
started,  or  I  should  have  had  a  wire.  They  must  have 
put  back,  or  put  in  for  shelter  somewhere.  And  if  she 
did  come,  I  couldn't  take  you  to  sea  to-night."  He  came 
across  to  where  Sibylla  sat  over  the  fire.  "It's  no  use  ex- 
pecting her  to-night.  We  must  get  away  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. There's  plenty  of  time."  He  meant  time  before 
Grantley  Imason  would  receive  Sibylla's  letter  and  come 
to  Fairhaven,  seeking  his  wife. 

"It's  too  perverse,"  Sibylla  murmured  forlornly. 

Her  vision  of  their  flight  was  gone.  The  rush  through 
the  waves,  the  whistling  wind,  the  headlong  course,  the 
recklessness,  the  remoteness  from  all  the  world,  the  stir, 
the  movement,  the  excitement — all  were  gone.  On  the 
yacht,  out  in  mid-sea,  no  land  in  sight,  making  for  a  new 
world,  they  two  alone,  with  all  that  belonged  to  the  old 
life  out  of  view  and  out  of  thought — the  picture  had  caught 
and  filled  her  fancy.  In  her  dream  the  sea  had  been  as 
Lethe,  the  stretch  of  waters  a  flood  submerging  all  the 
past  and  burying  the  homes  of  memory.  She  had  stood 
arm  in  arm  with  him,  revelling  in  the  riot  of  the  open  seas. 
No  further  had  the  vision  gone.  The  room  in  the  inn  was 
very  different.  It  was  small,  stuffy,  and  not  too  clean.  The 
smell  of  stale  tobacco  and  of  dregs  of  liquor  hung  about 
it.  The  fire  smoked,  sending  out  every  now  and  then  a 
thick  dirty  cloud  that  settled  on  her  hands  and  hair.  Her 
dainty  cleanliness  rose  in  revolt.  It  was  a  sordid  little 
room.  It  was  odious  then ;  it  would  never  be  pleasant  in 
retrospect.     Somehow  it  carried  a  taint  with  it;  it  brought 


204  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

into  prominence  all  that  her  thoughts  had  forgotten;  its 
four  dingy  walls  shut  out  the  glowing  picture  which  her 
fancy  had  painted. 

Blake  came  and  stood  behind  her  chair,  laying  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder.     She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sad  smile. 

"Nothing's  quite  what  you  expect,"  she  said.  "I 
wanted  my  voyage!  I  suppose  I  didn't  want — reality! 
But  I'm  not  a  child,  Walter.  I  have  courage.  This 
makes  no  difference  really." 

"Of  course  it  doesn't — so  long  as  we're  together." 

"I  didn't  come  to  you  to  make  the  good  times  better,  but 
to  make  the  bad  times  good — to  do  away  with  the  bad 
times.  That's  what  you  wanted  me  for;  that's  what  I 
wanted  to  do."  She  rose  and  faced  him.  "So  I'll  always 
welcome  trouble — because  then  I'm  wanted,  then  I  can  do 
what  I've  come  to  do." 

"Don't  talk  about  trouble,  Sibylla.  We're  going  to  be 
very  happy." 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  thought- 
ful eyes.     "I  think  we  shall  be." 

"By  God,  I  love  you  so!"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  and 
then  walked  off  to  the  window  again. 

She  spread  out  her  hands  in  an  instinctive  gesture  of 
deprecation,  but  her  smile  was  happy. 

"That's  how  I  can  do  what  I  want  to  do  for  you,"  she 
said.  "That's  how  I  can  change  your  life,  and — and  find 
something  to  do  with  mine." 

He  came  slowly  back  toward  her,  speaking  in  a  low 
restrained  voice  : 

"It's  really  no  use  waiting  for  the  boat.  She  won't 
come." 

Sibylla  stood  very  still ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face. 
He  met  her  gaze  for  a  moment,  then  turned  away,  sat 
down  by  the  table,  and  lit  a  cigarette — doing  it  just  by 


THE   STORM  205 

habit  and  because  he  was  so  restless,  not  because  he  wanted 
to  smoke. 

She  stood  there  in  silence  for  two  or  three  minutes. 
Once  she  shuddered  just  perceptibly.  She  was  striving 
to  yield,  to  do  what  he  asked,  to  live  up  to  her  gospel  of 
giving  everything  so  that  she  might  make  happy  him 
whom  she  had  chosen  to  receive  her  gifts — might  make 
him  happy,  and  so  fill,  enrich,  and  ennoble  his  life  and  hers. 
She  had  not  thought  there  would  be  a  struggle ;  that  had 
got  left  out  in  the  visions — the  visions  which  were  full  of 
the  swish  of  the  wind,  and  dance  of  the  waves,  and  the 
sailing  to  worlds  new  and  beautiful.  What  struggled? 
Old  teachings,  old  habits,  instincts  ingrained.  She  was 
acting  in  obedience  to  ideas,  not  to  feeling.  And  feeling 
alone  has  power  to  blot  such  things  out  of  being. 

But  for  good  and  evil  she  was  a  fanatic — she  owned 
her  ideas  as  masters,  and  forced  herself  to  bend  to  them  as 
a  slave.  What  they  asked  must  be  given — whatever  the 
sacrifice,  the  struggle,  the  repulsion.  That  they  might 
realize  what  her  nature  craved,  they  must  be  propitiated 
by  what  her  nature  did  not  love.  On  that  condition  alone 
would  they  deal  with  her,  and  now  these  ideas,  with  all 
their  exacting  relentless  claims,  had  found  embodiment  in 
Walter  Blake. 

Blake  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  She  came 
quickly  to  him  and  fell  on  her  knees  by  him.  His  hand 
rested  on  the  table,  and  she  laid  hers  lightly  on  it. 

"Walter,  it's  hard!" 

"If  you  love  me "  he  murmured. 

She  knew  by  now  that  love  can  be  unmerciful.  With  a 
little  sigh  she  raised  his  hand  and  kissed  it.  She  was  half 
reconciled  to  her  surrender  because  she  hated  it.  Had 
anyone  been  there  to  interpose  and  forbid,  her  reluctant 
acceptance  would  have  been  turned  into  an  ardent  desire 
to  complete  her  sacrifice. 


206  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Young  Blake  flung  away  his  cigarette  and  sprang  to  his 
feet.  He  was  not  thinking  of  his  aspirations  now.  Want- 
ing to  be  good  was  not  present  to  his  mind,  nor  the  leading 
of  a  new  life.  He  was  full  of  triumph.  He  forgot  the 
yacht  that  had  not  come,  and  anything  there  might  be  un- 
congenial in  the  surroundings.  He  caught  Sibylla's  hands. 
She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  half  of  wonder,  half  of 
pity.  She  had  put  away  her  shrinking — though  it  might 
come  back;  but  it  was  a  little  strange  that  good  could  be 
done  only  on  conditions. 

They  were  standing  thus  when  they  heard  a  voice,  the 
loud  gruff  voice  belonging  to  the  retired  merchant-skipper 
who  kept  the  inn.  He  was  rather  a  rough  customer,  as 
indeed  the  quality  of  his  patrons  rendered  necessary;  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  throw  a  man  out  or  (as  Fairhaven  re- 
port averred)  to  lay  a  stick  across  the  back  of  the  saucy 
buxom  daughter  who  served  the  bar  for  him  if  her  sauci- 
ness  became  too  pronounced.  On  the  whole  he  was  the 
sort  of  character  popular  in  the  nautical  quarter  of  Fair- 
haven. 

The  loud  voice  came  from  a  distance — from  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs  apparently.  The  landlord  was  talking  to 
himself,  for  all  that  appeared — no  other  voice  made  itself 
heard.  He  was  saying  that  he  had  made  a  promise,  and 
that  he  was  a  man  of  his  word.  He  said  this  several  times. 
Blake  and  Sibylla  stood  hand  in  hand,  their  eyes  turned  in 
the  direction  of  the  door.  Then  the  landlord  observed 
that  "times  were  hard,  and  that  he  was  a  poor  man." 
Blake  and  Sibylla  heard  that  too.  Then  the  landlord's 
heavy  step  came  half-way  up  the  stairs.  "A  poor  man," 
they  heard  him  say  with  strong  emphasis.  Still  they  could 
hear  no  other  voice  and  no  other  step.  But  they  had 
dropped  one  another's  hands  by  now,  and  stood  quite  still 
a  couple  of  paces  apart. 


THE  STORM  207 

"Oh,  he's  bargaining  with  somebody  for  the  price  of  a 

bed!"  said  young  Blake,  with  an  attempt  at  lightness. 
The  landlord's  steps  were  heard  descending  the  stairs 

again.    And  now  another  step  drew  near. 

Suddenly  young   Blake  darted  toward  the   door  and 

I locked  it.  He  turned  a  scared  face  round  on  Sibylla.  The 
steps  sounded  along  the  passage.  His  eyes  met  hers.  He 
<  did  not  know  the  step,  but  he  knew  the  one  thing  that  he 
feared,  and  his  uneasy  mind  flew  to  the  apprehension  of  it. 

"Can  it  be — anybody?"  he  whispered. 

"It's  Grantley,"  she  answered  quietly.  "Unlock  the 
door.  I'm  not  afraid  to  meet  him.  In  the  end  I  believe 
I'm  glad." 

"No,  no  !  You're  mad !  You  mustn't  see  him.  I'll  see 
him.  You  go  into  the  other  room."  There  was  a  com- 
municating door  which  led  to  a  bedroom.  "I'll  not  let  him 
come  near  you.    I'll  stand  between  you  and  him." 

"I  must  see  him.  I'm  not  afraid,  Walter.  Unlock  the 
door." 

"Oh,  but  I  shan't  let  him  come  in.    I  shall " 

"If  it's  Grantley,  he'll  come  in.  Unlock  the  door.  At 
any  rate  we  can't  have  the  door  broken  in." 

She  smiled  a  little  as  she  said  this,  and  then  sat  down  in 
the  chair  by  the  table  where  Blake  had  been  sitting  when 
she  kissed  his  hand  and  gave  him  her  surrender. 

A  knock  came  on  the  door.  Young  Blake  unlocked  it, 
and  stood  opposite  to  it.    His  face  was  pale  now. 

"He  shan't  come  near  you,"  he  whispered  to  Sibylla 
over  his  shoulder. 

She  made  no  sign.  She  sat  resting  her  clasped  hands  on 
the  table  and  gazing  intently  toward  the  door.  There 
was  no  sign  of  confusion  or  of  guilt  about  her.  Her  face 
was  composed  and  calm.  Young  Blake's  fists  were 
clenched.    He  seemed  to  keep  himself  still  with  an  effort 


208  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

The  door  opened,  and  Grantley  appeared  on  the  thres- 
hold. He  was  very  wet;  the  rain  dripped  from  his  hat  as 
he  took  it  off  his  head;  salt  spray  hung  on  the  hair  over  his 
ears.  He  shook  himself  as  he  shut  the  door  behind  him. 
Then  he  looked  from  Sibylla  to  Blake,  and  back  to  Sibylla, 
at  last  fixing  his  eyes  on  her. 

"You  can't  come  in  here,"  said  Blake.  "I'll  come  out- 
side with  you,  if  you  like,  but  you  can't  come  in  here." 

Grantley  took  no  notice.    His  eyes  were  on  Sibylla. 

"Am  I  too  late,  Sibylla?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  tranquilly,  "too  late." 

A  sudden  flush  swept  over  Grantley's  face,  but  in  an 
instant  his  usual  pallor  had  returned. 

"In  the  sense  in  which  I  spoke,  is  that  true,  Sibylla?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  a  little.  She  seemed  com- 
posed and  almost  careless  as  she  answered,  with  a  touch  of 
contempt : 

"No;  but  it  is  true,  for  all  that" 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

THE    UPPER   AND    THE   NETHER   STONE 
"  K~  ~^\  HEN   you    must   come   back   with   me,"   said 
Grantley. 
JL  Young  Blake  sprang  forward  a  step,  crying: 

"By  God,  no!" 

Neither  of  them  heeded  him;  their  eyes  were  on  one 
another.  Already  the  fight  was  between  the  two,  and  the 
two  only. 

"Do  you  really  think  that?"  she  asked.  "I  don't  know 
how  you  come  to  be  here — I  suppose  Christine  warned  you 
somehow ;  but  it's  by  mere  accident  that  you  are  here,  and 
that  I  haven't  gone  before  now.  It  makes  no  difference. 
You're  not  in  time,  as  you  call  it.  The  thing  is  settled  al- 
ready; it  was  settled  when  I  planned  to  come,  not  when  I 
came.  What  you  meant  doesn't  count.  Do  you  really 
think  I  shall  come  back  now?" 

"Yes,  you  must  come  back  now." 

"Back  to  that  life  ?  Never !  Of  course  you  don't  know 
what  it  was  to  me,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  could  tell  you. 
You  wouldn't  understand." 

Blake  threw  himself  into  a  chair  by  the  window.  He 
was  helplessly  impatient  of  the  situation.  Grantley  came 
a  little  nearer  the  table  and  stood  there,  to  all  seeming 
impassive.  The  appearance  was  not  very  deceptive.  He 
was  not  now  dominated  by  emotion;  he  was  possessed  by 
a  resolve.  His  love  for  his  wife  was  far  buried  in  his 
heart;  his  set  purpose  was  all  he  knew. 

"I  don't  see  what  you  had  to  complain  of,"  he  said 

209 


210  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

coldly.  "The  way  we  lived  was  your  choice,  not  mine. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  discuss  that.  I'm  here  to  take  you 
home  to  your  husband's  house  and  to  your  child." 

"I've  faced  all  that  a  thousand  times,  and  answered  it 
a  thousand  times.  It  can't  move  me  now.  You'd  better 
go  away}  Grantley." 

Again  Blake  rose ;  he  did  not  lack  physical  courage. 

"I'll  go  with  you.  I'm  at  your  service,"  he  said.  "But 
outside;  you  shan't  stay  here." 

He  waited  a  moment  for  an  answer,  but  getting  none, 
nor  so  much  as  a  look,  sank  awkwardly  into  his  seat  again. 

Grantley  spoke  to  his  wife. 

"I  know  what  happened.  Before  you  did  this,  you 
fogged  your  mind  with  all  sorts  of  fantastic  ideas.  You're 
not  the  woman  to  do  this  kind  of  thing  easily." 

"Fantastic  ideas!  Yes,  they'd  seem  so  to  you.  The 
fantastic  idea  of  having  something  to  live  for,  some  life, 
something  else  than  a  prison,  than  repression,  than  cold- 
ness.    I  had  lots  of  those  fantastic  ideas,  Grantley." 

"You  had  your  child." 

"I  tell  you  I've  faced  it."  She  pressed  her  fingers  hard 
into  her  cheek  and  frowned.  "The  child  made  it  worse," 
she  jerked  out  fiercely.  "Seeing  you  with  the  child 
was — "    She  shook  her  head  with  a  shiver. 

Grantley  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"As  bad  as  that?"  he  asked  mockingly.  He  paused,  and 
went  on:  "But  this  is  all  beside  the  point.  Supposing  it 
was  as  bad  as  you  say,  what  then?  You  had  made  your 
bargain;  you  chose  to  take  me;  you  relied  on  your  own 
opinion.  Say  it  was  a  mistaken  opinion — what  difference 
does  that  make?" 

"It  does  make  a  difference.  I'm  not  called  upon  to 
throw  away  every  chance  of  happiness  because  of  one  mis- 
take." 


UPPER  AND  NETHER  STONE  211 

"That's  just  what  you  are  called  upon  to  do — in  civil- 
ised society." 

uYou  don't  actually  propose  an  abstract  argument?"  she 
asked.  "Now — under  these  circumstances?"  She  smiled 
derisively. 

"Oh,  no!  But  your  point  of  view  compelled  a  protest. 
I'm  not  here  to  argue;  I'm  here  to  take  you  back — or,  if 
you  won't  come,  to  tell  you  the  consequences." 

"I'm  prepared  for  the  consequences." 

That  gave  young  Blake  another  chance.  He  rose  and 
came  forward. 

"Yes,  she  is — and  so  am  I,"  he  said;  "and  that  ought 
to  end  the  matter  between  us.  We're  prepared  for  the 
trouble  and  the  scandal  and  all  that;  and  I'm  prepared  for 
anything  else  you  may  think  proper  to  ask.  We've  weighed 
all  that,  and  made  up  our  minds  to  it.  That's  the  answer 
we  have  to  give." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  but  very  quickly  and  with  pas- 
sion; evidently  he  had  hard  work  to  keep  control  of  him- 
self. When  he  finished  speaking,  there  was  a  moment's 
silence.  He  looked  from  Grantley  to  Sibylla,  then  went 
back  to  his  chair;  but  he  drew  it  nearer  and  listened  in- 
tently. 

"It  is  so,"  said  Sibylla.  "We've  made  up  our  minds 
to  all  that." 

Grantley  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow — almost  the 
first  movement  that  he  had  made.  He  was  about  to  speak 
when  another  short  fit  of  vehemence  caught  hold  of 
Sibylla. 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  striking  the  table  with  her  hand,  "and 
it's  better  than  that  life  of  sham  and  fraud  and  failure 
and  heartbreak !    Yes,  a  thousand,  thousand  times  better!" 

He  let  the  gust  pass  by,  and  then  spoke  slowly,  as  though 
he  weighed  his  words. 


212  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"Those  are  the  consequences  to  you  and  your — your 
friend  here,"  he  said.  "Have  you  thought  of  the  con- 
sequences to  me?" 

"To  you?  Am  I  so  necessary?"  She  laughed  bit- 
terly. 

"And  to  the  boy?" 

"Not  so  bad  as  growing  up  in  such  a  home  as  ours  !'" 
she  flashed  out  fiercely  again. 

"Oh,  that's  the  way  you  argued  that?"  he  said  with  a 
smile.  "I  was  rather  wondering.  However  there  are 
other  consequences  still."  He  came  yet  a  pace  nearer  to 
her,  so  that  he  was  close  to  the  table,  and  rested  one  hand 
on  it.  "There  will  be  other  consequences  still,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  accept  the  position  you  propose  for  me.  I  don't 
accept  these  consequences  which  you  have  been  so  good  as 
to  face  and  decide  upon.  I  refuse  them  totally — both  for 
myself  and  for  my  son  I  refuse  them  utterly.  It's  fair  you 
should  understand  that.     I  refuse  them  root  and  branch." 

Blake  leant  forward,  ready  to  spring  up.  The  idea  of 
violence  came  into  his  head,  the  idea  that  Grantley  might 
be  armed.  Grantley  noticed  his  movement,  and  at  last 
addressed  a  word  to  him. 

"Don't  be  afraid.  I  don't  mean  that,"  he  said,  with  a 
short  laugh. 

Sibylla  spoke  to  him,  sadly  now. 

"You  can't  refuse.  It's  put  out  of  your  power.  This 
thing  must  be.  It  has  become  inevitable.  There's  no  use 
in  talking  of  refusing  the  consequences.  They  won't  be 
as  bad  as  you  think." 

"It's  not  inevitable;  it's  not  out  of  my  power.  It's  en- 
tirely in  my  power  to  accept  your  consequences  or  not  to 
accept  them,  to  face  them  or  not  to  face  them ;  and  I  have 
decided.  I  won't  be,  and  I  won't  be  known  as,  what  you're 
making  me;  and  your  son  shan't  have  to  confess  you  his 
mother  before  men." 


UPPER  AND  NETHER  STONE  213 

Young  Blake  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled  impatience, 
Sibylla  with  a  slow  pondering  glance.  She  twisted  a  ring 
on  her  finger  as  she  asked: 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"In  this  world  nothing  need  happen  to  us  that  we  don't 
choose  to  bear,  and  nothing  to  those  who  are  in  our  power 
that  we  don't  choose  to  accept  for  them." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  asked  Blake  fretfully. 
"It  sounds  all  nonsense  to  me." 

He  leant  back  with  a  scornful  toss  of  his  head.  This 
sort  of  thing  had  lasted  long  enough,  in  his  opinion. 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  said  Sibylla,  leaning  forward 
across  the  table. 

Grantley  announced  the  resolve  that  possessed  him,  born 
of  those  bitter  meditations,  of  those  intolerable  pictures  of 
the  future  which  had  formed  themselves  in  his  mind  as  he 
battled  through  the  storm  to  Fairhaven.  He  uttered  it 
not  as  a  threat,  but  as  a  warning;  it  was,  as  he  had  said, 
fair  that  she  should  understand. 

"If  you  persist,  I  shall  kill  Frank  and  myself  to-night." 

Blake  broke  into  a  loud  scornful  laugh,  sticking  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  Grantley  turned  toward  him,  smiling 
slightly. 

"Oh,  this  isn't  a  melodrama,  you  know,"  Blake  said, 
"and  we're  not  to  be  bluffed  like  that.  Don't  be  so  damned 
absurd,  Imason!  On  my  soul,  I've  had  enough  of  this 
business  without  having  to  listen  to  stuff  like  that!" 

"Do  you  think  it's  bluff  and  melodrama?"  Grantley 
asked  Sibylla.  "Do  you  think  I've  no  real  intention  of 
doing  it?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  intently. 

"You  love  yourself  more  than  the  boy,  and  your  pride 
more  than  life  or  happiness,"  she  said  slowly.  He  frowned, 
but  heard  her  without  interruption.  "So  I  think  you  might 
do  it,"  she  ended. 


214  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Sibylla!"  cried  Blake,  leaning  forward  again. 

A  gesture  from  her  arrested  his  speech.  He  rose  slowly 
to  his  feet  and  stood  listening. 

"I  may  be  made  a  fool  of.  I  don't  make  a  fool  of  my- 
self. If  I  pledge  myself  to  you  to  do  it,  you  know  I  shall 
doit,  Sibylla?" 

"Yes,  then  you  would  do  it,"  she  agreed. 

"Oh,  but  it's  nonsense,  it's  rank  madness,  it's — it's  in- 
conceivable!" Blake  broke  out. 

"I  do  now  so  pledge  myself,"  said  Grantley. 

Sibylla  nodded ;  she  understood.  She  leant  back  in  her 
chair  now,  regarding  her  husband  thoughtfully. 

Grantley's  pale  face  was  set  in  a  fixed  smile ;  he  met  her 
gaze  steadily. 

"It's  madness — you'll  be  stopped !"  Blake  burst  out.  "I 
can't  believe  you  mean  it.     Anyhow   you'll  be  stopped." 

"By  you?  Will  you  send  for  a  policeman?  Or  will 
you  come  to  my  house  and  stop  me?  Nothing  can  stop 
me  unless  you  kill  me.     Is  that  your  choice?" 

He  spoke  to  Blake,  but  he  looked  still  at  Sibylla.  Blake 
came  near  and  scrutinised  the  pale  face  with  eyes  whose 
expression  grew  from  wonder  and  incredulity  into  a  horri- 
fied apprehension.     The  silence  now  seemed  long. 

"Yes,"  said  Sibylla  at  last,  "it's  like  you.  That's  what 
you'd  do.  I  never  thought  of  it;  but  I'm  not  surprised. 
It's  you.  It's  just  that  in  you  which  has  made  my  life  an 
impossible  thing.  You  sacrificed  me  to  it.  You  would 
sacrifice  yourself  and  your  son.    Yes,  it's  you." 

She  put  her  hands  up  before  her  face  for  a  moment, 
pressing  her  fingers  on  her  eyelids.  Then  her  eyes  sought 
his  face  again. 

"But,  Sibylla—"  cried  Blake. 

"Yes,  he'd  do  it,  Walter,"  she  interrupted,  not  turning 
round. 


UPPER  AND  NETHER  STONE  215 

Blake  took  two  restless  paces  to  and  fro,  and  sank  into 
his  chair  again. 

"You  understand  now.  It  lies  with  you,"  said  Grantley 
to  his  wife.  "I've  told  you.  I  was  bound  to  tell  you.  Now 
it  lies  with  you." 

Again  passion  seized  her. 

"No,  no,  that's  false!  It  doesn't  lie  with  me.  It  lies 
at  your  door,  both  the  crime — the  hideous  crime — and,  I 
pray  God,  the  punishment  I" 

"I'm  not  talking  about  the  crime  or  the  punishment," 
he  said  coldly.  "I  take  those  on  myself  as  much  as  you 
like.  What  depends  on  you  is  whether  the  thing  happens. 
That's  all  I  meant  to  say." 

Young  Blake  was  staring  at  him  now  as  if  fascinated 
by  his  firm  and  hideous  resolve.  Slowly  it  had  been  driven 
into  Blake's  brain  that  the  man  meant  what  he  said,  that 
he  would  do  the  thing.  The  man  looked  like  it,  and  Si- 
bylla believed  he  would.  He  would  kill  himself — yes,  and 
the  pretty  child  with  whom  Sibylla  had  been  used  to  play. 
He  could  see  the  picture  of  that  now — of  Sibylla's  beauti- 
ful motherhood.  His  heart  turned  sick  within  him  as  he 
began  to  believe  Grantley's  sombre  pledge. 

"It's  a  lie,"  said  Sibylla  in  grim  defiance.  "Nothing 
depends  on  me.  It's  the  evil  of  your  own  heart.  I've 
nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"It's  with  you  to  bring  it  about  or  to  prevent  it." 

"No !"  she  cried,  rising  to  her  feet  in  the  agonised  strain 
of  her  heart — "No,  no!  That's  a  lie — a  lie!  On  your 
head  be  it!  Ah,  but  perhaps  it  would  be  best  for  him! 
God  knows,  perhaps  it  would  be  best !" 

"So  I  think,"  said  Grantley  quietly.  "And  you  accept 
that?" 

"No,  I  acknowledge  no  responsibility — not  a  jot." 

"Well,  leave  the  question  of  responsibility.     But  it's 


2i 6  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

your  will  that   this  shall  happen  sooner  than  that  you 

should  leave  this  man?" 

"Sooner  than  that  I  should  come  back  to  you,  that  life 
of  ours  begin  again,  and  Frank  grow  up  to  a  knowledge 
of  it!" 

"And  it's  my  will,  sooner  than  that  he  should  grow  up 
to  a  knowledge  of  how  his  mother  ended  it.  That's  set- 
tled, then?" 

"It's  no  bargain!"  she  protested  fiercely.  "You  have 
settled  it." 

"But  it  is  settled?"  he  persisted. 

"If  you  do  it,  may  God  never  pardon  you!" 

"Perhaps.     But  you  know  that  it  is  settled?" 

She  made  no  answer. 

"You  can't  deny  that  you  know.     So  be  it." 

He  faced  her  for  a  moment  longer;  her  figure  swayed 
a  little,  but  she  stood  her  ground.  She  was  not  beaten 
down.  And  she  knew  the  thing  was  settled,  unless  by 
chance,  at  the  last,  pity  should  enter  Grantley's  heart.  But 
she  did  not  believe  pity  could  enter  that  heart;  he  had  never 
shown  her  that  there  was  a  way. 

The  smile  rested  still  on  Grantley's  face  as  he  regarded 
his  wife.  She  looked  very  beautiful  in  her  fierce  defiance, 
her  loathing  of  him,  her  passionate  protest,  her  refusal  to 
be  beaten  down,  her  facing  of  the  thing.  She  had  a  fine 
spirit;  it  did  not  know  defeat  or  cravenness.  She  was  mad 
with  her  ideas.  Perhaps  he  was  mad  with  his.  And  the 
ideas  clashed — with  ruin  to  her  life,  and  his,  and  the  child's. 
But  she  did  not  bow  her  head  any  more  than  he  would 
bend  his  haughty  neck. 

"At  least  you  have  courage,"  he  said  to  her.  "It  is 
settled.  And  now  I'll  say  good-bye  and  go.  I'll  interrupt 
you  no  more." 

It  was  his  first  taunt  of  that  kind.    It  seemed  to  pass  un- 


UPPER  AND  NETHER  STONE  217 

heeded  by  Sibylla ;  but  young  Blake's  face  turned  red,  and 
he  clenched  his  hands ;  but  not  in  anger.  A  wave  of  horror 
passed  over  him.  He  would  not  interrupt  longer  what  his 
coming  had  interrupted — that  was  what  Grantley  Imason 
meant.  He  would  leave  them  to  themselves  while  he  went 
back  alone  to  his  home,  and  there  found  the  sleeping  child. 
But  the  idea  of  that — the  picture  of  the  one  house  and  the 
other — was  too  fearful.  How  could  the  two  bear  to  think 
of  that?  How  could  they  stand  there  and  decide  on  that? 
It  was  unnatural,  revolting,  alien  from  humanity.  Yet 
they  meant  it.  Blake  doubted  that  no  more,  and  the  con- 
viction of  it  unmanned  him.  He  had  been  prepared  for 
scandal,  he  had  been  ready  to  risk  his  life.  Those  things 
were  ordinary;  but  this  thing  was  not.  Scandal  is  one 
thing;  tragedy  another.  This  grim  unyielding  pair  of 
enemies  threw  tragedy  in  his  appalled  face.  It  was  too 
much.    A  groan  burst  from  his  lips. 

"My  God!"  he  moaned. 

They  both  turned  and  looked  at  him — Sibylla  gravely, 
Grantley  with  his  rigid  smile. 

"My  God,  I  can't  bear  it!"  He  was  writhing  in  his  v 
chair,  as  though  in  keen  bodily  pain.  "It's  too  awful!  " 
We — we  should  think  of  it  all  our  lives.  I  should  never 
get  rid  of  it.  I  should  see  the  poor  little  beggar's  face !  I 
can't  stand  that.  I  never  thought  of  anything  like  that. 
I  never  meant  anything  like  that.  Poor  little  Frank !  My 
God,  you  can't  mean  it,  Imason?" 

"You  know  I  mean  it.  It's  nothing  to  you.  The  re- 
sponsibility is  ours.  What  do  you  count  for?  It  was  you 
or  another — that's  all.  Neither  my  life  nor  my  son's  is 
anything  to  you." 

"But  it  would — it  would  always  be  there.  I  could  never 
sleep  at  nights.  I  should  feel  like — like  a  murderer.  For 
pity's  sake " 


218  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

He  came  toward  Grantley,  stretching  out  his  hands  for 
mercy.  Grantley  made  no  sign.  Blake  turned  to  Sibylla. 
She  too  was  stiff  and  still,  but  her  eyes  rested  on  him  in 
compassion.  He  turned  away  and  threw  himself  into  the 
chair  again.  A  convulsive  movement  ran  through  his 
body,  and  he  gave  a  loud  sob. 

Sibylla  walked  slowly  away  to  the  hearthrug,  and  stood 
looking  at  the  agonised  young  man.  Grantley  waited  in 
immovable  patience.    The  thing  was  not  finished  yet. 

"The  horror  of  it!"  Blake  moaned  almost  inarticulately. 
He  turned  to  weak  rage  for  an  instant  and  hissed  across 
to  Grantley:  "If  I  had  a  revolver,  I'd  shoot  you  where 
you  stand." 

"That  would  be  better  for  me,  but  not  better  for  the 
boy,"  said  Grantley. 

"I  can't  understand  you,"  Blake  gasped,  almost  sobbing 
again. 

"Why  should  you  ?  My  account  is  not  to  be  rendered  to 
you.  If  I've  ruined  my  wife's  life — and  you've  heard  her 
say  I  have — if  I  take  my  own  and  my  son's,  what  is  it  to 
you?" 

In  Grantley's  slow  measured  words  there  breathed  a 
great  contempt.  What,  he  seemed  to  say,  were  any  great 
things,  any  stern  issues,  to  this  unmanned  hysterical  crea- 
ture, who  dressed  up  his  desires  in  fine  clothes,  and  let  them 
beguile  him  whither  he  knew  not,  only  to  start  back  in 
feeble  horror  at  the  ruin  that  he  had  invited?  What  was 
it  all  to  him,  or  he  to  it?  It  was  he  or  another.  The  real 
battle  was  still  between  himself  and  Sibylla.  With  what 
eyes  was  she  looking  on  this  young  man?  He  turned  from 
the  collapsed  figure  and  faced  his  wife  again. 

But  her  eyes  were  now  on  Walter  Blake,  with  a  plead- 
ing, puzzled,  pitying  look.  The  next  moment  she  walked 
quickly  across  the  room  and  knelt  down  by  his  side,  taking 


UPPER  AND  NETHER  STONE  219 

one  of  his  hands  in  both  of  hers.  She  began  to  whisper 
consolation  to  him,  praying  him  not  to  distress  himself, 
to  be  calm  and  brave,  tenderly  reproaching  his  lack  of  self- 
control.  She  was  with  him  as  Grantley  had  seen  her  with 
the  child.  He  wondered  to  see  that,  and  his  wonder  kept 
his  temper  under  command.  There  did  not  seem  enough 
to  make  a  man's  passion  rage  or  his  jealousy  run  wild,  even 
though  she  whispered  close  in  Blake's  ear  and  soothingly 
caressed  his  hand. 

"Don't  be  so  distressed,"  he  heard  her  murmur.  "It's 
not  your  fault,  dear.     Don't  be  frightened  about  it." 

He  tried  to  shake  her  off  with  a  childish  petulance,  but 
she  persevered.  Yet  she  could  not  calm  him.  He  broke 
from  her  and  sprang  to  his  feet,  leaving  her  kneeling. 

"I  can't  face  it !    By  God,  I  can't !"  he  cried. 

"It  will  happen,"  said  Grantley  Imason.  "If  not  to- 
night— if  anything  prevents  me  to-night — still  very  soon. 
You'll  hear  of  it  very  soon." 

The  young  man  shuddered. 

"The  poor  little  chap — the  poor  innocent  little  chap !" 
he  muttered  hoarsely.  He  turned  to  Grantley.  "For 
Heaven's  sake,  think  again!" 

"It's  you  who  have  to  think.  I  have  thought.  I've 
little  time  for  more  thought.  You've  all  your  life  to  think 
about  it — all  your  life  with  that  woman,  who  is  the  mother 
of  the  child." 

"Why  do  you  torment  him?"  broke  out  Sibylla  angrily. 

But  she  rose  slowly  and  drew  away  from  Blake  as  she 
spoke. 

Grantley  shrugged  his  shoulders  scornfully. 

"The  fellow  has  no  business  in  an  affair  like  this,"  he 
said.     "He'd  better  get  back  to  his  flirtations." 

"I  never  thought  of  anything  like  this." 

The  repetition  came  from  Blake  like  some  dull  forlorn 
refrain. 


220  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  throat  and  gulped  with  a  hard 
dry  swallow.  He  looked  round  the  room,  made  for  a 
table  where  some  whiskey  stood,  and  took  a  drink  of  it. 
Then  he  half  staggered  back  to  his  chair,  and  sat  down  all 
in  a  heap.  His  limit  was  reached.  He  was  crushed 
between  the  upper  and  the  nether  stone — between  Grant- 
ley's  flinty  pride  and  the  ruthless  fanaticism  of  Sibylla's 
ideas.  Between  them  they  would  make  him,  who  had 
wanted  to  be  good,  who  had  had  such  fine  aspirations,  such 
high-coloured  dreams,  such  facile  emotions,  so  impulsive 
a  iove — between  them  they  would  make  him  a  murderer 
— a  murderer  in  his  own  eyes.  Whatever  hands  did  the 
deed,  to  the  end  of  his  days  conscience  would  cry  out  that 
his  were  red. 

Sibylla  sighed.  Her  eyes  were  very  mournful.  She 
spoke,  as  it  seemed,  more  to  herself  than  to  either  of  them. 

"I  wanted  to  make  him  happy,  and  I've  made  him  very 
unhappy.  I  can  do  it,  but  he  can't  do  it.  I  musn't  ask  it  of 
him.  He  would  never  be  happy,  I  could  never  make  him 
happy.  Even  if  I  could  be  happy,  he  couldn't;  it's  too 
hard  for  him.    I  don't  know  what  to  do  now." 

Grantley  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

"I've  no  right  to  ask  it  of  any  man.  Nobody  could 
agree  to  it,  nobody  could  endure  it.  There's  misery  both 
ways  now." 

She  went  to  Blake,  who  was  sitting  in  the  apathetic 
stupor  which  had  followed  his  raving  outburst.  Again 
she  knelt  by  him  and  whispered  to  him  soothingly.  At 
last  Grantley  spoke. 

"It  would  be  well  if  we  were  home  before  it's  light  and 
the  servants  up,"  he  said. 

She  looked  across  at  him  from  beside  Blake's  knee.  She 
looked  long  and  searchingly.  His  smile  was  gone;  his 
manner  and  air  were  courteous,  however  peremptory. 


UPPER  AND  NETHER  STONE  221 

"Yes,  it  would  be  well,"  she  said.  She  rose  and  came  a 
little  way  toward  him.  "There's  no  help  for  it.  I  can't 
escape  from  you.  I'm  bound  to  you  in  bonds  I  can't 
loosen.  I've  tried.  I've  stood  at  nothing.  I  wish  to 
Heaven  I  could !  Going  back  is  like  going  back  to  death. 
But  perhaps  he's  right.  Better  my  living  death  than  the 
thing  you  meant  to  do."  She  paused  and  ended:  "I'll  go 
back  to  the  child,  but  I  will  not  come  back  to  you." 

"You  give  all  I've  asked,"  said  Grantley  with  cold 
politeness. 

She  looked  round  at  young  Blake  with  a  pitiful  smile. 

"It's  the  only  way,  my  dear.  With  this  man  what  he  is, 
it's  the  only  way.    I  must  leave  you  alone." 

Blake  leant  toward  her  with  a  passionate  cry  of  pain. 
She  reasoned  gently  with  him. 

"But  you  know  the  alternative — you've  heard  it.  We 
can't  help  it.  This  man  is  capable  of  doing  it,  and  he 
would  find  out  a  way.  I  don't  see  that  we  could  do  any- 
thing at  all  to  stop  him.  Then  when  you  heard  it,  it 
would  be  so  terrible  to  you.  You'd  hate  yourself.  Oh, 
and,  my  dear,  I  think  you'd  hate  me !  And  I  couldn't  bear 
that.  No,  you  must  be  reasonable.  There's  no  other 
way." 

Blake  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  made  no  further 
effort.    He  knew  that  her  words  were  true. 

Sibylla  walked  into  the  bedroom,  leaving  the  two  alone. 
Neither  now  moved  nor  spoke.  The  storm  outside  seemed 
to  have  abated,  for  the  rain  dashed  no  more  against  the 
windows,  and  the  wind  was  not  howling  round  the  walls 
of  the  house.  It  was  very  still.  Grantley  Imason  pres- 
ently began  to  button  his  coat,  and  then  to  dust  the  wet 
off  his  hat  with  his  coat  sleeve. 

Sibylla  came  back  in  her  hat  and  cloak. 

"We  must  get  something  to  carry  you,"  said  Grantley. 
"I  wonder  if  we  could  raise  a  cart  here!" 


222  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"How  did  you  come?" 

"I  rode  over." 

"I  don't  want  a  cart.     I  shall  walk  beside  your  horse." 

"Impossible!  At  this  time  of  night!  And  such  a 
night!" 

"I  shall  walk — I  must  walk.  I  can't  sit  in  a  cart 
and " 

Her  gesture  explained  the  rest.  Struggling  along  on 
foot,  she  might  keep  her  wits.  Madness  lay  in  sitting  and 
thinking. 

"As  you  will,"  said  Grantley. 

She  had  begun  to  draw  on  her  gloves;  but  when  she 
looked  at  Blake  she  drew  them  quickly  off  again,  and 
thrust  them  into  a  pocket  of  her  cloak.  She  walked  past 
Grantley  to  Blake,  and  took  hold  of  both  his  hands.  Bend- 
ing over  him,  she  kissed  him  twice. 

"Thank  you  for  having  loved  me,  Walter,"  she  said. 
"Good-bye." 

Blake  said  nothing.  He  held  her  hands  and  looked  up 
imploringly  in  her  face.  Then  she  disengaged  herself 
from  his  grasp  and  turned  round  to  her  husband. 

"I'm  ready,"  she  said.     "Let  us  go." 

Grantley  bowed  slightly,  went  to  the  door,  and  opened 
it  for  her.  She  looked  back  once  at  Blake,  murmuring: 
"For  having  loved  me,  Walter,"  and  kissed  her  hand  to 
him. 

With  no  sign  of  impatience  Grantley  waited.  Himself 
he  took  no  heed  of  Blake,  but  followed  Sibylla  out  of  the 
room  in  unbroken  silence. 

When  he  found  himself  alone,  young  Blake  sprang 
toward  the  door,  giving  a  cry  like  some  beast's  roar  of 
rage  and  disappointment.  But  his  feet  carried  him  no 
more  than  half-way.  Half-way  was  all  he  ever  got.  Then 
he  reeled  across  to  where  the  liquor  was,  and  drank  some 


UPPER  AND  NETHER  STONE  223 

more  of  it,  listening  the  while  to  the  paces  of  Grantley's 
horse  on  the  stone  flags  outside  the  inn.  As  they  died 
away,  he  finished  his  liquor  and  got  back  to  his  chair.  He 
sat  a  moment  in  dull  vacancy;  then  his  nerves  failed  him 
utterly,  and  he  began  to  sob  helplessly,  like  a  forsaken 
frightened  child.  As  Grantley  Imason  said,  he  had  no 
business  in  an  affair  like  that. 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

WANDERING    WITS 

GRANTLEY'S  pride  was  eager  to  raise  its  crest 
again.  It  caught  at  the  result  of  the  struggle 
and  claimed  it  as  a  victory,  crying  out  that  there 
was  to  be  no  pointing  of  scornful  fingers,  no  chuckles  and 
winks,  no  shame  open  and  before  the  world.  The  woman 
who  walked  by  his  horse  was  a  pledge  to  that.  He  was 
not  to  stand  a  plain  fool  and  dupe  in  the  eyes  of  men. 
If  that  thought  were  not  enough,  look  at  the  figure  young 
Walter  Blake  had  cut !  Who  had  played  the  man  in  the 
fight?  Not  the  lover,  but  the  husband.  Who  had  won 
the  day  and  carried  off  the  prize  ?  The  woman  who  walked 
by  his  horse  was  the  evidence  of  that.  Who  had  known 
his  will,  and  stood  by  it,  and  got  it?  The  woman  an- 
swered that.  He  bore  her  off  with  him;  young  Blake  was 
left  alone  in  the  dingy  inn,  baulked  in  his  plan,  broken  in 
spirit,  disappointed  of  his  desire. 

The  night  was  still  and  clear  now.  Broad  puddles  in 
the  low-lying  road  by  the  sea,  and  the  slipperiness  of  the 
chalky  hill  up  to  the  cliffs,  witnessed  to  the  heaviness  of  the 
recent  downpour,  as  the  flattened  bushes  in  the  house  gar- 
dens proved  the  violence  of  the  tempest.  But  all  was  gone 
now,  save  the  sulky  heaving  of  big  rollers.  A  clear  moon 
shone  over  all.  They  met  nobody :  the  man  who  had  vain- 
ly watched  for  the  yacht  had  gone  home.  Sibylla  did  not 
speak.  Once  or  twice  she  caressed  Rollo,  who  knew  her 
and  welcomed  her.  For  the  rest  she  trudged  steadily 
through  the  puddles,  and  set  her  feet  resolutely  to  climb 

224 


WANDERING  WITS  225 

the  sticky  road.  She  never  looked  up  at  her  companion. 
The  brutality  of  his  pride  rejoiced  again  to  see  her  thus. 
Here  was  a  fine  revenge  for  her  scornful  words,  for  the 
audacity  with  which  she  had  dared  to  bring  him  within  an 
ace  of  irremediable  shame — him  and  the  child  she  had 
borne  to  him!  She  was  well  punished;  she  came  back  to 
him  perforce.  Was  she  weary?  Was  she  cruelly  weary? 
It  was  well.  Did  she  suffer?  It  was  just.  Woe  to  the 
conquered — his  was  the  victory  1  Even  in  her  bodily  trial 
his  fierceness  found  a  barbaric  joy. 

But  deep  within  him  some  mocking  spirit  laughed  at  all 
this,  and  would  not  let  its  jibes  be  silenced.  It  derided  his 
victory,  and  made  bitter  fun  of  his  prancing  triumph.  "I'll 
go  back  to  the  child,  but  I  will  not  come  back  to  you." 
"Going  back  is  like  going  back  to  death."  "Thank  you 
for  having  loved  me,  Walter."  The  mischievous  spirit 
was  apt  at  remembering  and  selecting  the  phrases  which 
stung  sharpest.  Was  this  triumph?  it  asked.  Was  this 
victory?  Had  he  conquered  the  woman?  No,  neither  her 
body  nor  her  soul.  He  had  conquered — young  Blake ! 
The  spirit  made  cheap  of  that  conquest,  and  dared  Grant- 
ley  to  make  much  of  it.  "Rank  blank  failure,"  said  the 
spirit  with  acrid  merriment.  "And  a  lifetime  of  it  before 
you !"  The  world  would  not  know  perhaps,  though  it  can 
generally  guess.  But  his  heart  knew — and  hers.  It  was 
a  very  fine  triumph  that — a  triumph  fine  to  win  against 
the  woman  who  had  loved  him,  and  counted  her  life  worth 
having  because  it  was  hers  to  give  to  him !  Through  the 
blare  of  the  trumpets  of  his  pride  came  this  piercing  ven- 
omous voice.  Grantley  could  not  but  hear.  Hearing  it, 
he  hated  Sibylla,  and  again  was  glad  that  she  trudged  la- 
boriously and  painfully  along  the  slimy  oozing  road.  The 
instinct  of  cruelty  spoke  in  him.  She  had  chosen  to  trudge. 
It  was  her  doing.     That  was  excuse  enough.     Whatever 


226  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

the  pain  and  labour,  she  had  her  way.    Who  was  to  blame 

for  it? 

They  passed  the  red  villas,  and  came  where  the  Mill- 
dean  road  branched  off  to  the  left  at  the  highest  point  of 
the  downs.  From  here  they  looked  over  the  cliffs  that 
sloped  toward  their  precipitous  fall  to  the  sea.  The  moon 
was  on  the  heaving  waters ;  a  broad  band  of  silver  cut  the 
waves  in  two.  Grantley  brought  his  horse  to  a  stand,  and 
looked.  At  the  instant  Sibylla  fell  against  the  horse's  shoul- 
der, and  caught  at  his  mane  with  her  hands,  holding  herself 
up.  Rollo  turned  his  head  and  nosed  her  cloak  in  a  friend- 
ly fashion.  A  stifled  sob  proclaimed  her  exhaustion  and 
defeat.  She  could  walk  no  more.  The  day  had  been  long, 
full  of  strain,  compact  of  emotion  and  struggle;  even  de- 
spair could  inspire  no  more  exertion.  In  a  moment  she 
would  fall  there  by  the  horse's  side.  Grantley  looked  down 
on  her  with  a  frowning  face,  yet  with  a  new  triumph. 
Again  she  failed;  again  he  was  right. 

"Of  course  you  couldn't  do  it!  Why  did  you  try?"  he 
asked  coldly.  "The  result  is — here  we  are!  What  are 
we  to  do  now?" 

She  made  no  answer;  her  clutch  on  Rollo's  mane  grew 
more  tenacious — that  alone  kept  her  up. 

"You  must  ride.  I'll  get  down,"  he  said  surlily.  Then 
he  gave  a  sudden  laugh.  "No,  he  can  carry  us  both — he's 
done  it  once  before.  Put  your  feet  on  the  stirrup  here — 
I'll  pull  you  up." 

She  made  no  sign  of  understanding  his  allusion.  He 
saw  that  she  was  dazed  with  weariness.  He  drew  her  up, 
and  set  her  behind  him,  placing  her  arm  about  his  waist. 

"Take  care  you  don't  let  go,"  he  warned  her  curtly,  as 
he  jogged  the  horse  on  again,  taking  now  to  the  turf,  where 
the  going  was  better. 

Her  grasp  of  his  waist  was  limp. 


WANDERING  WITS  227 

"Hold  on,  hold  on,"  he  said  testily,  "or  you'll  be  slip- 
ping off."    There  was  no  hint  of  tenderness  in  his  voice. 

But  Sibylla  recked  nothing  of  that  now.  With  a  long- 
drawn  sigh  she  settled  herself  in  her  place.  It  was  so 
sweet  to  be  carried  along — just  to  be  carried  along,  to  sit 
still  and  be  carried  along.  She  tightened  her  grip  on  him, 
and  sighed  again  in  a  luxury  of  content.  She  let  her  head 
fall  against  his  shoulder,  and  her  eyes  closed.  She  could 
think  no  more  and  struggle  no  more;  she  fell  into  the 
blessed  forgetfulness,  the  embracing  repose,  of  great  fa- 
tigue. 

The  encircling  of  her  arm,  the  contact  of  her  head,  the 
touch  of  her  hair  on  his  neck  moved  him  with  a  sudden 
shock.  Their  appeal  was  no  less  strong  because  it  was 
utterly  involuntary,  because  the  will  had  no  part  in  the 
surrender  of  her  wearied-out  body.  Memory  assailed  him 
with  a  thousand  recollections,  and  with  one  above  all.  His 
face  set  in  a  sullen  obstinate  resistance ;  he  would  not  hear 
the  voice  of  his  heart  answering  the  appeal,  saying  that  his 
enemy  was  also  the  woman  whom  he  loved.  He  moved 
the  horse  into  a  quicker  walk.  Then  he  heard  Sibylla 
speaking  in  a  faint  drowsy  whisper:  "Good  Rollo,  good 
Rollo,  how  he  carries  us  both — as  easily  as  if  we  were  one, 
Grantley!"  She  ended  with  another  luxurious  sigh.  It 
was  followed  by  a  little  shiver  and  a  fretful  effort  to  fold 
her  cloak  closer  about  her.  She  was  cold.  She  drew  nearer 
to  him,  seeking  the  warmth  of  contact.  "That's  a  little 
better,"  she  murmured  in  a  childish  grumbling  voice,  and 
sought  more  comfortable  resting  for  her  head  on  his 
shoulder. 

He  knew  that  her  wits  wandered,  and  that  the  present 
was  no  more  present  to  her.  She  was  in  the  past — in  the 
time  when  to  be  near  him  was  her  habit  and  her  joy,  the 
natural  refuge  she  sought,  her  rest  in  weariness,  the  end 


228  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

of  her  every  journey,  when  his  arms  had  been  her  home. 
Certainly  her  wits  must  be  wandering,  or  she  would  never 
rest  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  nor  suffer  her  hair  to  touch 
his  neck,  nor  speak  nor  sigh  like  that,  nor  deliver  herself 
to  his  charge  and  care  in  this  childish  holy  contentment. 
Wandering  wits,  and  they  alone,  could  make  her  do  any- 
thing of  this.  So  it  was  not  to  be  regarded.  How  should 
any  sane  man  regard  it  from  the  woman  who  had  for- 
saken her  child  and  sought  to  dishonour  her  home — whom 
he  had  but  just  torn  from  the  arms  of  a  lover? 

He  was  afraid.  Hence  came  his  summoning  of  the 
hardest  thoughts,  his  resort  to  the  cruellest  names.  He 
braced  himself  to  disregard  the  appeal  she  made,  to  recall 
nothing  of  all  that  her  intimate  presence  thrust  upon  his 
mind.  He  would  not  be  carried  back  across  the  gulf  of 
the  last  year,  across  the  chasm  which  those  months  had 
rent  between  them.  For  here  was  no  such  willing  submis- 
sion as  he  asked.  It  was  all  unconscious;  it  left  her  re- 
bellion unquelled  and  her  crime  unexpiated.  Yet  he  waited 
fearfully  to  hear  her  voice  again.  Whither  would  the  er- 
rant wits  next  carry  her?  Whither  must  they  carry  her? 
He  seemed  to  be  able  to  answer  that  question  in  one  way 
only.  They  must  go  right  back  to  the  beginning.  With  a 
sense  of  listening  to  inevitable  wTords,  he  heard  her  soft 
drowsy  whisper  again : 

"Let's  ride  straight  into  the  gold,  Grantley,  straight 
into  the  gold,  and  let  the  gold " 

The  faint  happy  murmur  died  away  in  a  sigh,  and  her 
head,  which  had  been  raised  a  moment,  nestled  on  his 
shoulder  again. 

It  had  come — the  supreme  touch  of  irony  which  he  had 
foreseen  and  dreaded.  The  errant  wits  had  over-leapt  the 
stupendous  gulf;  they  crimsoned  the  cold  rays  or  the 
moon   into   the   glory   of   summer  sunset;   they   coloured 


WANDERING  WITS  229 

desolate  ruins  with  the  gleaming  hues  of  splendid  youth. 
Her  soul  was  again  in  the  fairy  ride — the  fairy  ride  which 
had  led  whither?  Which  had  led  to  this !  Nothing  that 
waking  wits,  or  an  ingenuity  pointed  by  malice,  might  have 
devised,  could  have  equalled  this.  She  might  have 
searched  all  her  armoury  in  vain  for  so  keen  a  weapon. 
Nay,  she  would  have  rejected  this,  the  sharpest  of  all;  no 
human  being  could  have  used  it  knowingly.  It  would  have 
been  too  cruel.  He  listened  in  dull  terror  for  a  repetition 
of  the  words.  They  did  not  come  again.  What  need? 
He  heard  them  still,  and  a  groan  broke  the  seal  of  his  lips. 

"My  God,  must  she  do  that?"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"Get  on,  Rollo,  get  on!" 

For  now  the  triumph  faded  away,  the  unsubstantial 
pageant  was  no  more.  There  was  no  blare  of  trumpets 
to  deaden  the  mocking  voice.  The  little  victory  stood  in 
its  contemptible  dwarfishness  beside  the  magnitude  of  his 
great  defeat.  That  the  past  had  been,  that  the  present 
was — that  was  enough.  The  fairy  ride  and  the  struggle 
in  the  inn — they  stood  side  by  side  and  bade  him  gaze  on 
the  spectacle.  Beside  this  it  seemed  as  though  he  had  suf- 
fered nothing  that  day  and  night — nothing  in  the  thought 
of  ridicule  and  shame,  nothing  in  the  dishonour  of  his 
house  and  home,  nothing  in  the  jealousy  and  anger  of  a 
forsaken  man.  This  thing  alone  seemed  to  matter — that 
the  past  had  been  that,  and  that  the  present  was  this,  and 
that  they  had  been  so  shaped  in  the  hands  of  him,  the 
fashioner  of  them. 

Then  suddenly,  with  a  quick  twist  of  thought,  he  was 
bitterly  sorry  for  Sibylla :  because  words  and  memories 
which  come  back  like  that,  unbidden  and  of  themselves, 
when  the  wits  are  wandering,  must  have  meant  a  great  deal 
and  had  a  great  place  once.     At  such  a  time  the  mind 


230  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

would  not  throw  up  trifles  out  of  an  unconscious  recollec- 
tion. The  things  which  have  been  deepest  in  it,  which  have 
filled — yes,  and  formed  it — those  were  the  things  that  it 
would  throw  up.  In  themselves  they  might  sound  wild 
trifles,  but  they  were  knit  to  great  deep  things,  toward 
which  they  stood  as  representatives.  They  expressed 
nethermost  truths,  however  idle  and  light  they  sounded. 
When  she  babbled  of  riding  into  the  gold,  and  sank  her 
spirit  in  the  memory  of  the  fairy  ride,  she  went  back  all 
unconsciously  to  the  great  moment  of  her  life  and  to  its 
most  glorious  promise.  She  spoke  of  the  crown  of  all  her 
being. 

It  was  strange  to  him,  this  new  sorrow  for  Sibylla.  He 
had  never  felt  that  yet.  It  was  odd  he  should  feel  it  now 
— for  the  woman  who  had  forsaken  her  child  and  sought 
to  dishonour  her  husband  and  her  son.  But  the  feeling 
was  very  strong  on  him.  It  found  its  first  utterance  in 
words  of  constrained  civility.  He  turned  his  head  back, 
saying : 

"I'm  afraid  you're  very  tired?" 

She  answered  nothing. 

"I  hope  you're  not  very  cold?" 

A  little  shiver  of  her  body  ran  into  his. 

"We  shall  be  home  very  soon." 

"Home!"  she  murmured  sleepily.  Yes,  soon  home 
now,  Grantley." 

"God  help  me !"  he  muttered. 

He  could  not  make  it  out.  Somehow  his  whole  con- 
ception of  her,  of  the  situation,  of  himself,  seemed  shaken. 
This  guilty  woman  behind  him  (Was  she  not  guilty  in  all 
that  was  of  consequence,  in  every  decision  of  her  will  and 
every  impulse  of  her  nature?)  seemed  to  accuse  not  her- 
self, but  him.  He  was  torn  from  the  judgment-seat  and 
set  rudely  in  the  dock,  peremptorily  bidden  to  plead,  not 


WANDERING  WITS  231 

to  sentence,  to  beg  mercy  in  lieu  of  pronouncing  doom. 
Her  wandering  wits  and  drowsy  murmurs  had  inexplicably 
wrought  this  transformation.    And  why?    And  how? 

Was  it  because  she  had  been  capable  of  the  fairy  ride 
and  able  to  make  it  eternal  ?  Capable — yes,  and  confident 
of  her  ability.  So  confident  that,  in  the  foolhardiness  of 
strength,  she  had  engaged  herself  to  try  it  with  young 
Blake — with  that  poor  light-o'-love,  who  was  all  unequal 
to  the  great  issues  which  he  himself  had  claimed  as  the 
kernel  of  the  fight.  Where  lay  the  failure  of  the  fairy 
ride?  Where  resided  its  nullity?  How  came  it  that  the 
bitter  irony  of  contrast  found  in  it  so  fair,  so  unmatched  a 
field?  Who  had  turned  the  crimson  of  the  glorious  sunset 
to  the  cold  light  of  that  distant  unregarding  moon  ? 

On  a  sudden  her  grasp  of  him  loosened ;  her  arm  slipped 
away.  She  gave  a  little  groan.  He  wrenched  himself 
round  in  the  saddle,  dropping  the  reins.  Old  Rollo  came 
to  a  standstill ;  Grantley  darted  out  his  hands  with  a  quick 
eager  motion.  Another  second,  and  she  would  have  fallen 
heavily  to  the  ground.  With  a  strain  he  held  her,  and 
brought  her  round  and  sat  her  in  front  of  him.  She  seemed 
deathly  pale  under  the  blue-white  moon-rays.  Her  lips 
opened  to  murmur  "Grantley !"  and  with  a  comfortable 
sigh  she  wreathed  her  arms  about  his  neck.  He  almost 
kissed  her,  but  thought  of  young  Blake,  and  took  up  his 
reins  again  with  a  muttered  oath. 

So  they  rode  down  the  hill  into  Milldean,  old  Rollo 
picking  his  steps  carefully  since  the  chalk  was  slimy,  and 
there  were  loose  flints  which  it  behoved  a  careful  and 
trusted  horse  to  beware  of.  The  old  scene  dawned  on 
Grantley,  pallid  and  ghostly  in  the  moonlight — the  church 
and  the  post-office ;  Old  Mill  House,  where  she  had  lived 
when  he  wooed  her;  his  own  home  on  the  hill  beyond. 
Sibylla's  cold  arms  close  about  his  neck  prayed  him  to  see 


232  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

it  again  as  he  had  seen  it  once — nay,  in  a  new  and  intenser 
light;  to  see  it  as  the  place  where  his  love  had  been  born, 
whence  the  fairy  ride  had  started  and  whither  returned. 
He  did  not  try  to  loosen  her  grasp  about  his  neck.  She 
seemed  a  burden  that  he  must  carry,  a  load  he  bore  home 
from  out  the  tempest  of  the  winds  and  waves  which  he  had 
faced  and  fought  that  night.  And  ever,  as  he  went,  he 
sought  dimly,  saying,  "Why,  why?"  "How  did  it  come 
about?"  "Haven't  I  loved  her?"  "Hasn't  she  had  every- 
thing?" Or  exclaiming,  "Blake!"  Or  again,  "And  the 
child;"  trying  to  assess,  trying  to  judge,  trying  to  con- 
demn, yet  ever  feeling  the  inanimate  grasp,  looking  on  the 
oblivious  face,  returning  to  pity  and  to  grieve. 

A  groom  was  waiting  up  for  him.  Grantley  roused 
himself  from  his  ponderings  to  give  the  man  a  brief  ex- 
planation. Mrs.  Imason  had  meant  to  stay  at  Mrs.  Val- 
entine's, but  he  had  wanted  to  talk  to  her  on  business,  and 
she  had  insisted  on  coming  back  with  him.  Unfortunately 
she  had  attempted  to  walk,  and  it  had  been  too  much  for 
her;  her  bag  would  be  sent  home  to-morrow.  He  had  ar- 
ranged this  with  the  gruff  innkeeper,  and  paid  him  a  good 
sum  to  hold  his  tongue.  But  he  was  conscious  that  tongues 
would  not  be  held  altogether,  and  that  the  groom  was 
puzzled  by  the  story  and  certainly  not  convinced.  This 
seemed  to  matter  very  little  now — as  little  as  young  Blake 
had  mattered.  Let  them  guess  and  gossip — what  was  that 
compared  to  the  great  unexplained  thing  between  himself 
and  Sibylla,  compared  to  the  great  questioning  of  himself 
by  himself  which  had  now  taken  possession  of  him?  What 
the  outside  world  might  think  seemed  now  a  small  thing — 
yes,  although  he  had  been  ready  to  kill  himself  and  the 
child  because  of  it. 

He  bore  Sibylla  into  the  hall  of  the  house.  One  lamp 
burned  dimly  there,  and  all  was  quiet — save  for  a  shrill 


WANDERING  WITS  233 

fractious  cry.  The  child  was  crying  fretfully.  The  next 
moment  old  Mrs.  Mumple  came  to  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
carrying  a  bedroom  candle  and  wrapped  in  a  shabby  volu- 
minous dressing-gown. 

"You're  back,  Mr.  Imason?"  She  did  not  see  Sibylla, 
and  held  up  her  hand.  "Hark  to  poor  little  Frank!"  she 
said.  "He's  been  crying  all  the  evening.  I  can't  quiet  him. 
He  misses  his  mummy  so." 

Could  words  more  sorely  condemn  Sibylla — the  woman 
who  had  forsaken  her  child?  But  Grantley  gathered  her 
gently  into  his  arms  and  began  to  carry  her  upstairs.  Then 
Mrs.  Mumple  saw,  and  turned  on  him  eyes  full  of  wonder. 

"She's  unconscious,  I  think,"  he  said.  "She  can  do 
nothing  for  herself.  I'll  take  her  to  her  room,  and  you 
must  put  her  to  bed.  She's  very  cold  too.  You  must  make 
her  warm,  Mrs.  Mumple." 

The  old  woman  followed  him  into  the  bedroom  without 
a  word.  He  laid  Sibylla  down  on  the  bed.  For  an  instant 
she  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  tenderly  at  him ;  then  she 
fell  into  oblivion  again.  Mrs.  Mumple  moved  quickly  to 
her.  Standing  by  her,  ranged  on  her  side  in  a  moment  by 
some  subtle  instinct,  she  faced  Grantley  with  an  air  of 
defiance. 

"Leave  her  to  me,  Mr.  Imason.  Leave  the  poor  child 
to  me." 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "Get  her  to  bed  as  soon  as  you 
can.    Good-night." 

Mrs.  Mumple  was  feeling  Sibylla's  face,  her  hands,  her 
ankles.    She  began  to  unbutton  the  wet  boots  hastily. 

"What  have  you  done  to  her?"  she  asked  in  motherly 
indignation.     "Poor  lamb !" 

She  pulled  off  the  boots,  and  felt  the  damp  stockings 
with  low  exclamations  of  horror.  She  was  in  her  element, 
fussing  over  somebody  she  loved.  She  got  a  rough  towel, 
and  knelt  down  to  strip  off  the  stockings. 


234  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"I  can  leave  her  to  you  now,"  said  Grantley,  and  he 
walked  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  house  he  heard  the  little  peevish 
cry  again;  the  complaint  in  it  was  more  intense,  as  though 
the  child  missed  old  Mrs.  Mumple's  care,  and  feared  to 
be  alone.  Grantley  went  along  the  passage  and  into  the 
nursery.  A  night-light  burned  by  the  cot.  The  door  of 
the  adjoining  room  stood  open  a  few  inches,  but  all  was 
dark  and  quiet  in  there.  When  Grantley  came  near,  the 
child  saw  him,  and  stretched  out  his  little  arms  to  him  in 
a  gesture  which  seemed  to  combine  welcome  and  entreaty. 
Grantley  shook  his  head,  smiling  whimsically. 

"I  wonder  what  the  little  beggar  wants!  I'm  devilish 
little  use,"  he  murmured.  But  he  lifted  little  Frank  from 
the  cot,  wrapped  him  in  a  blanket,  and  carried  him  to  the 
fireside.  "I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  feed  him?"  he  thought. 
"What's  the  nurse  up  to?  Oh,  I  suppose  she's  left  him  to 
old  Mumples.    Why  didn't  she  feed  him?" 

Then  it  struck  him  that  perhaps  Frank  had  been  fed  too 
much,  and  he  shook  his  head  gravely  over  such  a  trying 
situation  as  that.  Frank  was  lamenting  still — more  gently, 
but  in  a  remarkably  persevering  way.  "He  must  want 
something,"  Grantley  concluded;  and  his  eye  fell  on  a 
cup  which  stood  just  within  the  fender.  He  stooped  down 
and  stuck  his  finger  into  it,  and  found  it  half  full  of  a 
warm,  thick,  semi-liquid  stuff. 

"Got  it!"  he  said  in  lively  triumph,  picking  up  the  cup 
and  holding  it  to  Frank's  lips.  The  child  sucked  it  up. 
"Well,  he  likes  it  anyhow;  that's  something.  I  hope  it 
won't  kill  him!"  mused  Grantley,  as  he  gently  drew  the 
cup  away  from  the  tenacious  little  fingers. 

Frank  stuck  one  of  the  fingers  in  his  mouth,  stopped 
crying,  and  in  an  instant,  seemingly,  was  sound  asleep. 
Grantley  got  him  into  a  position  that  he  guessed  would  be 


WANDERING  WITS  235 

comfortable,  and  lay  back  in  the  chair,  nursing  him  on  his 
knees. 

In  half  an  hour  Mrs.  Mumple  came  in  and  found  them 
both  sound  asleep  in  front  of  the  fire.  She  darted  to  them, 
and  shook  Grantley  by  the  shoulder.  He  opened  his  eyes 
with  a  start. 

"My  gracious,  you  might  have  dropped  him!" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  Look  how  he's  holding  on!"  He 
showed  the  little  hand  clenched  tightly  round  his  forefin- 
ger.    "He  could  hang  like  that,  I  believe!" 

"Hang  indeed!"  muttered  Mrs.  Mumple  resentfully. 
"Give  him  to  me,  Mr.  Imason." 

"Oh,  by  all  means!  But,  by  Jove,  he  doesn't  want  to 
go,  you  know!" 

He  did  not  want  to  go,  apparently,  and  Grantley  was 
quite  triumphant  about  it.  Mrs.  Mumple  was  merely 
cross,  and  grumbled  all  the  time  till  she  got  the  little 
fingers  unlaced  and  Frank  safe  in  his  cot  again.  "It's  a 
mercy  he  didn't  fall  into  the  fire,"  she  kept  repeating,  with 
a  lively  and  aggressive  thankfulness  for  escape  from  a  dan- 
ger excessively  remote.  But  she  made  Grantley  ashamed 
of  not  having  thought  of  it.    At  last  she  spoke  of  Sibylla. 

"She's  warm  and  comfortable  and  sleeping  now,  poor 
lamb !"  she  said. 

"It's  time  we  all  were,"  said  Grantley,  making  for  the 
door. 

"You  won't  disturb  her,  Mr.  Imason?" 

He  turned  round  to  her,  smiling. 

"No,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Mumple  moved  her  fat  shoulders  in  a  helpless 
shrug.  She  had  made  out  nothing  about  the  matter;  she 
was  clear  only  that  Sibylla  had  somehow  been  disgrace- 
fully ill-used,  and  that  Frank  might  very  well  have  fallen 
into  the  fire.    Of  these  two  things  she  was  unalterably  con- 


236  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

vinced.     But  she  spoke  of  one  of  them  only;  the  other  was 

declared  in  her  hostile  eyes. 

Against  his  will — perhaps  against  his  promise — Grant- 
ley  was  drawn  to  his  wife's  bedside.  He  trod  very  softly. 
The  only  light  in  the  room  came  from  the  bright  flickering 
flames  of  the  fire.  They  lit  up  her  face  and  her  throat 
where  she  had  torn  her  nightgown  apart.  He  felt  the 
white  neck  very  lightly  with  his  hand.  It  was  warm — 
healthily  warm,  not  feverish.  She  had  taken  no  hurt  either 
from  storms  within  or  from  storms  without.  She  slept 
deeply  now;  she  would  awake  all  well  on  the  morrow. 
She  would  be  herself  again  on  the  morrow.  He  thanked 
Heaven  for  that,  and  then  recollected  what  it  meant.  Her- 
self was  not  the  woman  who  murmured  "Grantley!"  and 
dreamed  of  the  gold  and  the  fairy  ride.  Herself  was  the 
woman  who  could  not  live  with  him,  who  had  forsaken  the 
child,  who  had  gone  to  Walter  Blake.  To  that  self  she 
would  awake  to-morrow.  Then  was  it  not  better  that  she 
should  never  awake?  Ought  he  not  to  be  praying  Heaven 
for  that — praying  that  the  death  which  had  passed  by  him 
and  his  son  should,  in  its  mercy,  take  her  now  ? 

Aye,  that  was  the  easiest  way — and  from  his  heart  and 
soul  Grantley  despised  the  conclusion.  His  face  set  as  it 
had  when  he  faced  her  in  the  dingy  inn  and  tore  her  from 
her  lover's  ready  arms.  His  courage  rose  unbroken  from 
the  ruins  of  his  pride.  He  would  fight  for  her  and  for 
himself.    But  how?    There  must  be  a  way. 

Suddenly  she  raised  herself  in  the  bed.  In  an  instant 
he  had  drawn  back  behind  the  curtains.  She  neither  saw 
him  nor  heard.  For  a  moment  she  supported  herself  on 
her  hand,  with  the  other  flinging  back  her  hair  over  her 
shoulders.  Then,  with  one  of  her  splendid  lithe  easy 
movements,  she  was  out  of  bed  and  had  darted  quickly 
across  to  the  door. 

Grantley  watched  her,  holding  his  breath,  in  a  strange 


WANDERING  WITS  237 

terror  lest  she  should  discover  him,  fearful  that  in  such  a 
case  her  delusion  might  still  keep  its  hold  on  her — fearful 
too  of  the  outrage  his  presence  would  seem  if  it  had  left 
her.  She  opened  the  door  wider,  and  stood  listening  for 
fully  a  couple  of  minutes ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  time 
would  never  end.  Then  she  carefully  set  the  door  halfway 
ajar,  and  turned  to  come  back  to  her  bed.  She  walked 
slowly  now,  and  looked  toward  the  fire,  stretching  out  her 
hands  toward  it  for  a  moment  as  she  came  opposite  to  it. 
The  flames  illuminated  her  face  again,  and  he  saw  on  her 
lips  a  smile  of  perfect  happiness.  All  was  well;  there  was 
no  crying  in  the  house;  the  child  slept.  That  was  all  she 
thought  of,  all  she  cared  about;  her  brain  was  dormant, 
but  her  instinct  could  not  sleep.  Now  that  it  was  satisfied, 
with  a  buoyant  spring  she  leapt  on  the  bed  and  cuddled 
the  clothes  about  her  happily. 

In  a  few  seconds  Grantley  stole  silently  from  the  room. 
He  went  downstairs,  and  he  ate  and  drank :  he  had  touched 
next  to  nothing  for  twelve  hours.  His  blood  stirred  as 
warmth  and  vigour  came  back  to  him.  He  thanked  Heav- 
en that  he  lived,  and  the  boy  lived,  that  she  lived  and  was 
with  him  still.  His  head  was  high  and  his  courage  un- 
broken. He  looked  on  what  he  had  been,  and  understood; 
yet  he  was  not  dismayed.  Guided  by  the  smile  on  her  lips, 
he  had  found  the  way.  He  had  been  right  to  bring  her 
back,  or  she  could  not  have  smiled  like  that — in  all  the 
plenitude  of  love  for  the  little  child,  a  love  that  waked 
while  reason  slept,  but  would  not  let  her  sleep  till  it  was 
satisfied.  If  that  was  in  her  who  had  forsaken  the  child, 
so  her  love  for  him  was  in  her  who  had  left  him  to  go  to 
Walter  Blake.  If  that  were  true,  then  there  must  be  a 
way. 

Somehow,  he  knew  not  how,  salvation  should  come 
through  the  child.  His  mind  leapt  on  to  a  vision  of  bonds 
of  love  joined  anew  by  the  link  of  those  little  hands. 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

ROSEATE   HUES 

THE  Raymores  were  holding  up  their  heads  again 
— such  good  reports  came  from  Buenos  Ayres. 
The  head  of  Charley's  department  had  written 
a  letter  to  Raymore,  speaking  highly  of  the  lad's  good 
conduct  and  ability,  and  promising  him  early  promotion. 
Raymore  showed  it  to  Kate,  and  she  read  it  with  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"You  see  he's  going  to  give  him  a  holiday  at  Christmas, 
and  let  him  spend  a  month  with  us,"  said  Raymore,  point- 
ing out  a  passage  in  the  letter. 

"Come  on  a  visit,  he  says."  She  looked  up  with  a  ques- 
tioning glance. 

Raymore  understood  the  question. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  he  said  gently.  uHe'll  pay  us  a  visit 
— many  visits,  I  hope — but  his  career  must  lie  over  there. 
That's  inevitable,  and  best  on  all  grounds,  I  think."  He 
came  and  took  her  hand,  adding,  "We  must  be  brave  about 
that." 

"I'll  try,"  said  Kate. 

She  knew  that  was  the  penalty  which  must  be  paid. 
Over  here  the  past  would  never  be  utterly  buried.  Charley 
would  never  be  quite  safe  from  it.  He  must  buy  safety  and 
a  fresh  start  at  the  price  of  banishment.  His  mother  faced 
the  bitter  conclusion. 

"We  must  make  the  most  of  the  visits,"  she  sighed. 
"And,  yes,  I  will  be  brave." 

"We  must  give  him  a  splendid  time  while  he's  with  us," 

said  Raymore,  and  kissed  her.     "You've  been  fine  about 

it,"  he  whispered:  "keep  it  up." 

238 


ROSEATE  HUES  ^39 

The  penalty  was  high,  or  seemed  so  to  a  mother,  but 
the  banishment  was  not  all  evil.  The  boy's  absence  united 
them  as  his  presence  had  never  done.  At  home  he  had 
been  an  anxiety  often,  and  sometimes  a  cause  of  distress, 
to  them.  All  that  was  gone  now.  He  was  a  bond  of  union, 
and  nothing  else.  And  his  own  love  for  them  came  out. 
When  he  was  with  them,  a  lad's  shamefacedness,  no  less 
than  the  friction  of  everyday  life,  had  half  hidden  it.  His 
heart  spoke  out  now  from  across  the  seas;  he  wrote  of 
home  with  longing;  it  seemed  to  grow  something  holy  to 
him.  He  recounted  artlessly  the  words  of  praise  and  the 
marks  of  confidence  he  had  won ;  he  was  pleading  that  they 
made  him  worthy  to  pay  his  Christmas  visit  home.  When- 
ever his  letters  came,  Raymore  and  Kate  had  a  good  talk 
together  over  them;  the  boy's  open  heart  opened  their 
hearts  also  to  one  another — yes,  and  to  Eva  too.  They 
paid  more  attention  to  Eva,  and  were  quicker  to  understand 
her  growth,  to  see  how  she  reached  forward  to  woman- 
hood, and  to  be  ready  to  meet  her  on  this  new  ground. 
She  responded  readily,  with  the  idea  that  she  must  do  all 
she  could  to  lighten  the  sorrow  and  to  make  Charley's  ab- 
sence less  felt.  In  easy-going  times  people  are  apt  to  be 
reserved.  The  trouble  and  the  worry  broke  up  the  crust 
which  had  formed  over  their  hearts.  All  of  them — even 
the  boy  so  far  away — were  nearer  together. 

This  softened  mood,  and  the  gentler  atmosphere  which 
reigned  in  the  Raymores'  household,  had  its  effect  on  Jere- 
my Chiddingfold's  fortunes.  It  caused  both  Kate  and  Ray- 
more  to  look  on  at  his  proceedings  with  indulgence.  They 
were  constantly  asking  themselves  whether  they  had  not 
been  too  strict  with  Charley,  and  whether  the  calamity 
might  not  have  been  prevented  if  they  had  encouraged 
him  to  confide  in  them  more,  and  to  bring  his  difficulties 
to  them.    They  were  nervously  anxious  to  make  no  such 


240  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

mistake  in  regard  to  Eva.  They  were  even  in  a  hurry  to 
recognise  that  Eva  must  consider  herself — and  therefore 
be  considered — a  young  woman.  A  pretty  young  woman, 
to  boot!  And  what  did  pretty  young  women  like — and 
attract?  Eva  was  not  repressed;  she  was  encouraged  along 
her  natural  path.  And  it  was  difficult  to  encourage  Eva 
without  encouraging  Jeremy  too — that  at  least  was  Kate 
Raymore's  opinion,  notwithstanding  that  she  had  been 
made  the  repository  of  the  great  secret  about  Dora  Hut- 
ting. "A  boy  and  girl  affair!"  she  called  it  once  to  Ray- 
more,  and  made  no  further  reference  to  it. 

Kate  was  undoubtedly  in  a  sentimental  mood;  the  small 
number  and  the  distant  advent  of  the  hundreds  a  year  from 
the  dyeing  works  did  not  trouble  her.  Half  unconsciously, 
in  the  sheer  joy  of  giving  Eva  pleasure,  in  the  delight  of 
seeing  her  girl  spread  her  wings,  she  threw  the  young  folk 
together,  and  marked  their  mutual  attraction  with  further- 
ing benevolence. 

"We've  been  happy,  after  all,"  she  said  to  Raymore, 
"and  I  should  like  to  see  Eva  happily  settled  too." 

"No  hurry!"  he  muttered.     "She's  a  child  still." 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  said  Kate,  with  a  smile  of  superior 
knowledge ;  fathers  were  always  like  that. 

Eva  exulted  in  the  encouragement  and  the  liberty,  try- 
ing her  wings,  essaying  her  power  with  timid  tentative 
flights.  Yet  she  remained  very  young;  her  innocence  and 
guilelessness  did  not  leave  her.  She  did  not  seek  to  shine, 
she  did  not  try  to  flirt.  She  had  not  Anna  Selford's  self- 
confidence,  nor  her  ambition.  Still  she  was  a  young  woman, 
and  since  Jeremy  was  very  often  at  hand,  and  seemed  to 
be  a  suitable  subject,  she  tried  her  wings  on  him.  Then 
Kate  Raymore  would  nod  secretly  and  significantly  at  her 
husband.  She  also  observed  that  Eva  was  beginning  to 
show  a  good  deal  of  character.    This  might  be  true  in  a 


ROSEATE  HUES  241 

sense,  since  all  qualities  go  to  character,  but  it  was  hardly 
true  in  the  usual  sense.  Christine  Fanshaw  used  always  to 
say  that  Eva  was  as  good  as  gold — and  there  she  would 
leave  the  topic,  without  further  elaboration. 

Well,  that  was  the  sort  of  girl  Jeremy  liked!  He  saw 
in  himself  now  a  man  of  considerable  experience.  Had 
he  not  grown  up  side  by  side  with  Sibylla,  her  whims  and 
her  tantrums?  Had  he  not  watched  the  development  of 
Anna  Selford's  distinction,  and  listened  to  her  sharp 
tongue?  Had  he  not  cause  to  remember  Dora  Hutting's 
alternate  coquettishness  and  scruples,  the  one  surely  rather 
forward  (Jeremy  had  been  revising  his  recollections),  the 
other  almost  inhuman?  Reviewing  this  wide  field  of  fem- 
inine variety,  Jeremy  felt  competent  to  form  a  valid  judg- 
ment; and  he  decided  that  gentleness,  trustfulness,  and 
fidelity  were  what  a  man  wanted.  He  said  as  much  to  Alec 
Turner,  who  told  him,  with  unmeasured  scorn,  that  his 
ideas  were  out  of  date  and  sadly  retrograde. 

"You  want  a  slave,"  said  Alec  witheringly. 

"I  want  a  helpmeet,"  objected  Jeremy. 

"Not  you  !  A  helpmeet  means  an  equal — an  intellectual 
equal,"  Alec  insisted  hotly.  He  was  hot  on  a  subject  which 
did  not  seem  necessarily  to  demand  warmth  because  he  too 
had  decided  what  he  wanted.  He  had  fallen  into  a  pas- 
sion which  can  be  described  only  as  unscrupulous.  He 
wanted  to  marry  clever,  distinguished,  brilliant  Anna  Sel- 
ford — to  marry  her  at  a  registry  office  and  take  her  to  live 
on  two  pounds  a  week  (or  thereabouts)  in  two  rooms  up 
two  pair  of  stairs  in  Battersea.  Living  there,  consorting 
with  the  people  who  were  doing  the  real  thinking  of  the 
age,  remote  from  the  fatted  bourgeoisie,  she  would  really 
be  able  to  influence  opinion  and  to  find  a  scope  for  her 
remarkable  gifts  and  abilities.  He  sketched  this  menage 
in  an  abstract  fashion,  not  mentioning  the  lady's  name,  and 


242  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

was  much  annoyed  when  Jeremy  opined  that  he  "wouldn't 

find  a  girl  in  London  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  as  for  you,  I  know  you're  going  to  become  a 
damned  plutocrat,"  Alec  said,  with  a  scornful  reference 
to  the  dyeing  works. 

"Rot!"  remarked  Jeremy,  but  he  was  by  no  means  so 
annoyed  at  being  accused  of  becoming  a  damned  plutocrat 
as  he  would  have  been  a  year  earlier,  before  he  had  de- 
termined to  seek  speedy  riches  and  fame  in  order  to  dazzle 
Dora  Hutting,  and  when  he  had  not  encountered  the  gentle 
admiring  eyes  of  Eva  Raymore.  Whatever  else  plutocrats 
(if  we  may  now  omit  the  epiphetus  or  nans)  may  or  may 
not  do  in  the  economy  and  service  of  the  commonwealth, 
they  can  at  least  give  girls  they  like  fine  presents,  and  fur- 
nish beautiful  houses  (and  fabrics  superbly  dyed)  for  their 
chosen  wives.  There  are,  in  short,  mitigations  of  their 
lot,  and  possibly  excuses  for  their  existence. 

Jeremy's  state  of  mind  may  easily  be  gauged.  The  dye- 
ing works  were  prominent,  but  the  experience  of  life  was 
to  the  front  too.  He  was  working  hard — and  had  his  heart 
in  his  play  besides.  For  his  age  it  was  a  healthy,  and  a 
healthily  typical,  existence.  The  play  part  was  rich  in  com- 
plications not  unpleasurable.  The  applause  of  large  ad- 
miring brown  eyes  is  not  a  negligible  matter  in  a  young 
man's  life.  There  was  enough  of  the  old  Jeremy  surviving 
to  make  the  fact  that  he  was  falling  in  love  seem  enough 
to  support  an  excellent  theory  on  the  subject.  But  on  the 
other  hand  he  had  meant  the  fame  and  riches  for  Dora 
Hutting — to  dazzle  her  anyhow — whether  to  satisfy  or  to 
tantalise  her  had  always  been  a  moot  point.  In  imagina- 
tion Jeremy  had  invariably  emerged  from  the  process  of 
making  wealth  and  fame  either  unalterably  faithful  or  in- 
delibly misogynistic — Dora  being  the  one  eternal  woman, 
though  she  might  be  proved  unworthy.    It  had  never  oc- 


ROSEATE  HUES  243 

curred  to  him  that  he  should  label  the  fame  and  riches  to 
another  address.  To  be  jilted  may  appear  ludicrous  to  the 
rest  of  the  world,  but  the  ardent  mind  of  the  sufferer  con- 
trives to  regard  it  as  tragic.  A  rapid  transference  of  affec- 
tion tends  to  impair  the  dignity  of  the  whole  matter.  Still, 
large  brown  admiring  eyes  will  count — especially  if  one 
meets  them  every  day.  Jeremy  was  profoundly  puzzled 
about  himself,  and  did  not  suppose  that  just  this  sort  of 
thing  had  ever  occurred  before. 

Then  a  deep  sense  of  guilt  stole  over  him.  Was  he  tri- 
fling with  Eva?  He  hoped  not.  But  of  course  there  is 
no  denying  that  the  idea  of  trifling  with  girls  has  its  own 
attractions  at  a  certain  age.  At  any  rate  to  feel  that  you 
might — and  could — is  not  altogether  an  unpleasing  sensa- 
tion. However  Jeremy's  moral  sense  was  very  strong — 
the  stronger  (as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  assuring  Alec  Tur- 
ner) for  being  based  on  pure  reason  and  the  latest  results 
of  sociology.  Whenever  Eva  had  been  particularly  sweet 
and  admiring,  he  felt  that  he  ought  not  to  go  to  Bucking- 
ham Gate  again  until  he  had  put  his  relations  with  Dora 
Hutting  on  an  ascertained  basis.  He  would  knit  his  brow 
then,  and  decline  to  be  enticed  from  his  personal  problems 
by  Alec's  invitations  to  general  discussion.  At  this  stage 
of  his  life  he  grew  decidedly  more  careful  about  his  dress, 
not  aiming  at  smartness,  but  at  a  rich  and  sober  effect. 
And  all  the  while  he  started  for  Romford  at  eight  in  the 
morning.     He  was  leading  a  very  fine  existence. 

"These  are  very  roseate  hues,  Kate,"  Christine  Fan- 
shaw  observed  with  delicate  criticism  as  she  sipped  her  tea. 
Kate  had  been  talking  about  Eva  and  hinting  benevolently 
about  Jeremy. 

"Oh,  the  great  trouble's  always  behind.  No,  it's  not  so 
bad  now,  thank  Heaven !  But  if  only  he  could  come  back 
for  good!     I'm  sure  we  want  roseate  hues!" 


244  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"I  daresay  we  do,"  said  Christine,  drawing  nearer  the 
fire.  It  was  autumn  now,  and  she  was  always  a  chilly  little 
body. 

"Look  at  those  wretched  Courtlands.  And  somehow 
I  don't  believe  that  Grantley's  marriage  has  been  alto- 
gether successful." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  there  had  been  a  questioning 
inflection  in  her  voice ;  but  Christine  made  no  comment. 

"For  myself  I  can't  complain " 

"And  you  won't  get  anything  out  of  me,  Kate." 

"But  we  do  want  the  young  people  to — to  give  us  the 
ideal  back  again." 

"I  suppose  the  old  people  have  always  thought  the 
young  people  were  going  to  do  that.  And  they  never  do. 
They  grow  into  old  people — and  then  the  men  drink,  or 
the  women  run  away,  or  something." 

"No,  no,"  Kate  Raymore  protested.  "I  won't  believe 
it,  Christine.  There's  always  hope  with  them,  anyhow. 
They're  beginning  with  the  best,  anyhow !" 

"And  when  they  find  it  isn't  the  best?" 

"You're — you're  positively  sacrilegious!" 

"And  you're  disgracefully  sentimental." 

She  finished  her  tea  and  sat  back,  regarding  her  neat 
boots. 

"Walter  Blake's  back  in  town,"  she  went  on. 

"He's  been  yachting,  hasn't  he?" 

"Yes,  for  nearly  two  months.  I  met  him  at  the  Sel- 
fords'." 

A  moment's  pause  followed. 

"There  was  some  talk "  began  Kate  Raymore  ten- 
tatively. 

"It  was  nonsense.    There's  some  talk  about  everybody." 

Kate  laughed.  "Oh,  come,  speak  for  yourself,  Chris- 
tine." 


ROSEATE  HUES  245 

"The  Imasons  are  down  in  the  country." 

"And  Walter  Blake's  in  town  ?    Ah,  well !"  Kate  sighed 
thankfully. 

"In  town — and  at  the  Selfords'."     She  spoke  with  evi- 
dent significance. 

Kate  raised  her  brows. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  Janet  Selford,  can  it?"  smiled  Chris- 
tine. 

"I  think  he's  a  dangerous  man." 

"Yes— he's  so  silly." 

"You  do  mean — Anna?" 

"I've  said  all  I  mean,  Kate.     Anna  has  come  on  very 
much  of  late.     I've  dressed  her,  you  know." 

"Oh,  that  you  can  do!" 

"That's  why  I'm  such  a  happy  woman.    Teach  Eva  to 
dress  badly!" 

Again  Kate's  brows  rose  in  remonstrance  or  question. 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  mean  it,  of  course.     What  would  be 
the  good,  when  most  men  don't  know  the  difference?" 

"You're  certainly  a  good  corrective  to  idealism." 

"I  ought  to  be.     Well,  well,  Anna  can  look  after  her- 
self." 

"It  isn't  as  if  one  positively  knew  anything  against  him." 

"One  might  mind  one's  own  business,  even  if  one  did," 
Christine  observed. 

"Oh,  I  don't  quite  agree  with  you  there.     If  one  saw  an 
innocent  girl " 

"Eva?     Oh,  you  mothers!" 

"I  suppose  I  was  thinking  of  her.     Christine,  did  Si- 
bylla ever ?" 

"Not  the  least,  I  believe,"  said  Christine  with  infinite 
composure. 

"It's  no  secret  Walter  Blake  did." 

"Are  there  any  secrets?"  asked  Christine.     "It'd  seem 


246  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

a  pity  to  waste  anything  by  making  a  secret  of  it.  One 
can  always  get  a  little  comfort  by  thinking  of  the  pleasure 
one's  sins  have  given.  It's  really  your  duty  to  your  neigh- 
bour to  be  talked  about.  You  know  Harriet  Courtland's 
begun  her  action?    There'll  be  no  defence,  I  suppose!" 

"Has  she  actually  begun  ?    How  dreadful !    Poor  Tom ! 
John  tried  to  bring  her  round,  didn't  he?" 

A  curious  smile  flickered  on  Christine's  lips.     "Yes,  but 
that  didn't  do  much  good  to  anybody." 

"She  flew  out  at  him,  I  suppose?" 

"So  I  understood."     Christine  was  smiling  oddly  still. 

"And  what  will  become  of  those  unhappy  children?" 

"They  have  their  mother.     If  nature  makes  mistakes 
in  mothers,  I  can't  help  it,  Kate." 

"Is  she  cruel  to  them?" 

"I  expect  so — but  I   daresay  it's  not   so  trying  as  a 
thoroughly  well-conducted  home." 

"Really  it's  lucky  you've  no  children,"  laughed  Kate. 

"Really  it  is,  Kate,  and  you've  hit  the  truth,"  Christine 
agreed. 

Kate  Raymore  looked  at  the  pretty  and  still  youthful 
face,  and  sighed. 

"You're  too  good  really  to  say  that." 

Christine  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently.     Perhaps 
I  meant  lucky  for  the  children,  Kate,"  she  smiled. 

"And  I  suppose  it  means  ruin  to  poor  Tom?    Well,  he's 
been  very  silly.     I  met  him  with  the  woman  myself !" 

"Was  she  good-looking?" 

"As  if  I  noticed !    Why,  you  might  be  a  man !     Besides 
it  was  only  decent  to  look  away." 

"Yes,   one  looks  on  till  there's  a  row — and  then  one 
looks  away.     I  suppose  that's  Christianity." 

"Now  really,  I  must  beg  you,  Christine " 

"Well,  Eva's  not  in  the  room,  is  she,  Kate?" 


ROSEATE  HUES  247 

"You're  quite  at  your  worst  this  afternoon."  She  came 
and  touched  her  friend's  arm  lightly.  "Are  you  un- 
happy?" 

"Don't !  It's  your  business  to  be  good  and  sympathetic 
— and  stupid,"  said  Christine,  wriggling  under  her  affec- 
tionate touch. 

"But  John's  affairs  are  ever  so  much  better,  aren't 
they?" 

"Yes,  ever  so  much.     It's  not  John's  affairs.    It's 

Good  gracious,  who's  this?" 

Something  like  a  tornado  had  suddenly  swept  into  the 
room.  It  was  Jeremy  in  a  state  of  high  excitement.  He 
had  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and  rushed  up  to  Kate  Raymore, 
holding  it  out.    At  first  he  did  not  notice  Christine. 

"I've  had  a  letter  from  Sibylla "  he  began  excitedly. 

"Any  particular  news?"  asked  Christine  quickly. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Fanshaw !  I — I  didn't 
see  you."  His  manner  changed.  Christine's  presence  evi- 
dently caused  him  embarrassment.  "No;  no  particular 
news.     It's — it's  not  about  her,  I  mean." 

"I'll  go  if  you  like,  but  I  should  dearly  like  to  hear." 
She  looked  imploringly  at  Jeremy :  she  was  thinking  that 
after  all  he  was  a  very  nice  boy. 

"Give  me  the  letter,  Jeremy.  Show  me  the  place,"  said 
Kate  Raymore. 

Jeremy  did  as  she  bade  him,  and  stood  waiting  with 
eager  eyes.  Christine  made  no  preparations  for  going; 
she  thought  that  with  a  little  tact  she  might  contrive  to 
stay  and  hear  the  news.    She  was  not  mistaken. 

"Dora  Hutting  engaged!"  said  Kate,  with  a  long 
breath. 

Jeremy  nodded  portentously. 

"Good  gracious  me !"  murmured  Kate. 

"To  a  curate — a  chap  who's  a  curate,"  said  Jeremy. 
His  tone  was  full  of  meaning. 


248  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Wasn't  she  always  High  Church?"  asked  Christine 
sympathetically. 

"Why,  you  never  knew  her,  Mrs.  Fanshaw?" 

"No,  but  most  curates  are  High  Church  now,  aren't 
they?" 

"It's  very  curious,  isn't  it,  Jeremy?"  asked  Mrs.  Ray- 
more.     "Met  him  at  her  aunt's,  I  see  Sibylla  says." 

Jeremy  stood  before  the  fire  with  knitted  brows.  "Yes, 
at  her  aunt's,"  he  repeated  thoughtfully. 

"Why  is  it  curious,  Kate?" 

"Oh,  you  know  nothing  about  it,  Christine." 

"I'm  trying  to  learn — if  Mr.  Chiddingfold  would  only 
tell  me." 

"It's  nothing.  It's — it's  just  a  girl  I  used  to  know,  Mrs. 
Fanshaw." 

"Ah,  those  girls  one  used  to  know,  Mr.  Chiddingfold !" 

Jeremy  laughed — he  laughed  rather  knowingly. 

"And  she's  consoled  herself?"  pursued  Christine. 

"Oh,  come  now,  I  say,  Mrs.  Fanshaw!" 

"It's  no  use  trying  to  be  serious  with  her,  Jeremy.  We'll 
read  all  about  it  when  she's  gone." 

"Yes,  all  right.  But  to  think — !  Well,  I'm  dining 
here,  aren't  I?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Christine  reassuringly. 

"Christine,  you're  very  impertinent.  Yes,  of  course, 
Jeremy,  and  we'll  discuss  it  then.  Why  don't  you  find 
Eva?    She's  in  the  library,  I  think." 

"Oh,  is  she?  Then  I — I  might  as  well,  mightn't  I?" 
He  spoke  listlessly,  almost  reluctantly.  And  he  did  not 
leave  the  room  by  a  straight  path,  but  drifted  out  of  it  with 
an  accidental  air,  fingering  a  book  or  two  and  a  nicknack 
or  two  on  his  devious  way.  Christine's  eyes  followed  his 
erratic  course  with  keen  amusement. 

"You  wicked  woman!"  she  said  to  Kate  as  the  door 


ROSEATE  HUES  249 

closed.  "You  might  have  given  him  one  afternoon  to  dedi- 
cate to  the  memory  of  Miss  Dora — what  was  her  name?" 

"She  was  the  rector's  daughter  down  at  Milldean. 
Well,  I'm  really  glad!  I  fancy  she  was  a  flighty  girl, 
Christine." 

"Oh  dear  me,  I  hope  not,"  said  Christine  gravely. 
"What  an  escape  for  the  poor  dear  boy  I" 

"You  shan't  put  me  out  of  temper,"  beamed  Kate  Ray- 
more. 

"I  should  think  not,  when  your  machinations  are  trium- 
phing!" 

"He's  too  nice  a  boy  to  be  thrown  away.  And  I  don't 
think  he  was  quite  happy  about  it." 

"I  don't  suppose  he  deserved  to  be." 

"And  now  he  can " 

"Oh,  I  won't  hear  any  more  about  it!  As  it  is,  I've 
heard  a  lot  more  than  anybody  meant  me  to,  I  suppose." 
She  got  up.  "I  must  go  home,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
frown.  "I'm  glad  I  came.  I  like  you  and  your  silly  young 
people,  Kate." 

"Oh,  no,  stay  a  little,"  Kate  begged.  "I  want  to  ask 
you  about  a  frock  for  Eva." 

Christine  was  glad  to  talk  about  frocks — it  was  the 
craft  whereof  she  was  mistress — and  glad  too  to  stay  a 
little  longer  at  the  Raymores'.  There  was  youth  in  the 
air  there,  and  hope.  The  sorrow  that  was  gradually  lift- 
ing seemed  still  to  enrich  by  contrast  the  blossoming  joy 
of  the  young  lives  which  had  their  centre  there.  Her 
chaff  covered  so  keen  a  sympathy  that  she  could  not  safely 
do  anything  except  chaff.  The  thought  of  the  different 
state  of  things  which  awaited  her  at  home  did  as  much 
to  make  her  linger  as  her  constitutional  dislike  of  leaving 
a  cheery  fire  for  the  dreary  dusk  outside.  Once  she  was 
near  confiding  the  whole  truth  to  Kate  Raymore,  so  sore 


25o  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

a  desire  had  she  for  sympathy.  But  in  the  end  her  habit 
of  reticence  won  the  day,  and  she  refused  to  betray  her- 
self, just  as  she  had  declined  to  be  false  to  Sibylla's  secret. 
What  could  Kate  Raymore  do  for  her?  To  speak  of  her 
trouble  would  only  be  to  cast  a  shadow  over  the  joy  of  a 
friendly  heart. 

When  she  did  go,  chance  tempted  her  to  a  very  mean 
action,  and  she  fell  before  the  temptation  without  the  least 
resistance.  The  lights  were  not  yet  turned  up  on  the 
staircase  or  in  the  hall,  and  Christine,  left  by  her  own 
request  to  find  her  way  downstairs,  found  the  library  door 
open — it  gave  on  to  the  hall.  The  room  was  not  lighted 
either,  except  by  a  bright  fire.  She  saw  two  figures  sitting 
by  the  fire,  and  drew  back  into  the  gloom  of  the  hall,  with 
a  smile  on  her  lips. 

Eva  was  wondering  at  Jeremy.  Of  course  he  had  said 
nothing  of  the  news  to  her;  indeed  she  knew  nothing  ex- 
plicit of  Dora  Hutting — she  had  heard  only  a  hint  or  two 
from  her  mother.  But  this  evening  there  was  a  difference 
in  Jeremy.  Hitherto  an  air  of  hesitation  had  hung  about 
him;  when  he  had  said  anything — well,  anything  rather 
marked — he  would  often  retreat  from  it,  or  smooth  it 
down,  or  give  it  some  ordinary  (and  rather  disappoint- 
ing) explanation  in  the  next  sentence.  He  alternated  be- 
tween letting  himself  go  and  bringing  himself  up  with 
a  jerk.  This  demeanour  had  its  interesting  side  for 
Eva,  but  it  had  also  been  rather  disquieting;  sometimes 
it  had  seemed  almost  to  rebuke  her  for  listening  to 
the  first  sentence  without  displeasure,  since  the  first  had 
been  open  to  the  interpretation  which  the  second  so 
hastily  disclaimed.  In  fact  Jeremy's  conscience  had 
kept  interposing  remarks  between  the  observations  of  an- 
other faculty  in  Jeremy.  The  result  had  not  been  homo- 
geneous.    Conscience  spoils  love-making;  it  should  either 


ROSEATE   HUES  251 

let  it  alone,  or  in  the  proper  cases  prevent  it  alto- 
gether. 

This  evening  things  had  changed.  His  chagrin  and 
his  relief — his  grudge  against  Dora  and  her  curate,  and 
his  sense  of  recovered  liberty — joined  forces.  He  did  not 
let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet.  He  engaged  in  the 
primeval  art  of  courting  without  hesitation  or  reserve. 
His  eyes  spoke  in  quick  glances,  his  fingers  sought  excuses 
for  transient  touches.  He  criticised  Eva,  obviously  mean- 
ing praise  where  with  mock  audacity  he  ventured  on  de- 
preciation. Eva  had  been  working  at  embroidery  — 
Jeremy  must  have  the  process  explained,  and  be  shown 
how  to  do  it  (to  be  sure,  it  was  rather  dark — they  had  to 
lean  down  together  to  get  the  firelight) .  His  fingers  were 
very  awkward  indeed,  and  needed  a  lot  of  arranging. 
Eva's  clear  laugh  rang  out  over  this  task,  and  Jeremy  pre- 
tended to  be  very  much  hurt.  Then,  suddenly,  Eva  saw 
a  line  on  his  hand,  and  had  to  tell  him  what  it  meant. 
They  started  on  palmistry,  and  Jeremy  enjoyed  himself 
immensely.  The  last  Christine  saw  was  when  he  had 
started  to  tell  Eva's  fortune,  and  was  holding  her  hand  in 
his,  inventing  nonsense,  and  not  inventing  it  very  well. 

Well  or  ill,  what  did  it  matter?  Old  or  new,  it  mat- 
tered less.  The  whole  thing  was  very  old,  the  process  as 
well  ascertained  as  the  most  primitive  method  ever  used 
in  Jeremy's  dyeing  works.  "Poor  children!"  breathed 
Christine,  as  she  stole  softly  away  toward  the  hall  door. 
She  could  not  stand  there  and  look  on  and  listen  any  more. 
Not  because  to  listen  was  mean,  but  because  it  had  become 
intolerable.  She  was  ready  to  sob  as  she  let  herself  out 
silently  from  the  house  of  love  into  the  chilly  outer  air. 
She  left  them  to  their  pleasure,  and  set  her  face  home- 
ward. But  her  mind  and  her  heart  were  full  of  what  she 
had  seen — of  the  beauty  and  the  pity  of  it;  for  must  not 


252  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

the  beauty  be  so  short-lived?  Had  not  she  too  known  the 
rapture  of  that  advancing  flood  of  feeling — yes,  though 
the  flood  flowed  where  it  should  not?  How  the  memories 
came  back — and  with  what  mocking  voices  they  spoke! 
WeM  had  it  been  for  her  to  stand  outside  and  look !  For 
of  a  surety  never  again  might  she  hope  to  enter  in. 

A  man  came  full  beneath  the  light  of  a  street  lamp. 
It  was  a  figure  she  could  never  forget  nor  mistake.  It 
was  Frank  Caylesham.  He  saw  her,  and  raised  his  hat, 
half-stopping,  waiting  her  word  to  stop.  She  gave  an 
involuntary  little  cry,  almost  hysterical. 

"Fancy  meeting  you  just  now!"  she  gasped. 


CHAPTER    NINETEEN 
IN   THE   CORNER 

CHRISTINE  had  neither  desire  to  avoid  nor 
strength  to  refuse  the  encounter.  Her  emotions 
had  been  stirred  by  what  she  had  seen  at  Kate 
Raymore's;  they  demanded  some  expression.  Her  heart 
went  forth  to  a  friend,  forgetting  any  bitterness  which 
attached  to  the  friendship.  The  old  attraction  claimed 
her.  When  Caylesham  said  that  it  was  quite  dark, 
and  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  escort  her, 
she  agreed  readily,  and  was  soon  babbling  to  him  about 
Eva  and  Jeremy.  She  put  her  arm  in  his,  talked  merrily, 
and  seemed  very  young  and  fresh  as  she  turned  her  face 
up  to  his  and  joked  fondly  about  the  young  people.  None 
of  the  embarrassment  which  had  afflicted  her  visit  to  his 
flat  hung  about  her  now.  She  had  somebody  she  could 
talk  to  freely  at  last,  and  was  happy  in  his  society.  It  was 
a  holiday — with  a  holiday's  irresponsibility  about  it.  He 
understood  her  mood;  he  was  always  quick  to  understand 
at  the  time,  though  very  ready  to  forget  what  the  feeling 
must  have  been  and  what  it  must  continue  to  be  when  he 
had  gone.  He  shared  her  tenderness,  her  pity,  and  her 
amusement  at  the  youthful  venturers.  They  talked  gaily 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Christine  not  noticing  which  way 
they  went.    Then  a  pause  came. 

"Are  we  going  right?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  not  quite  straight  home,"  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  but  we  must,"  she  said  with  a  sigh.  He  nodded 
and  took  a  turn  leading  more  directly  to  her  house. 

"I  hear  things  are  much  better  with  John.  I  met 
Grantley  and  he  told  me  they  were  in  much  better  shape." 

*53 


254  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"Thanks  to  Grantley  Imason  and  you.    Yes,  and  you  I" 

"I  was  very  glad  to  do  it.  Oh,  it's  nothing.  I  can  trust 
old  John,  you  know." 

"Yes;  he'll  pay  you  back.  Still  it  was  good  of  you." 
She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.     "He  knows,  Frank,"  she  said. 

"The  devil  he  does!"  Caylesham  was  startled  and 
smiled  wryly. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  told  you  that.  I  suppose  I  had  to 
talk  to  somebody.  Yes;  Harriet  Courtland  told  him — 
you  remember  she  knew  ?  He  made  her  angry  by  lecturing 
her  about  Tom,  and  she  told  him." 

"He  knows,  by  Jove,  does  he  ?"  He  pulled  at  his  mous- 
tache; she  pressed  his  arm  lightly.  "But,  I  say,  he's  taken 
the  money!"    He  looked  at  her  in  a  whimsical  perplexity. 

"So  you  may  imagine  what  it  is  to  me." 

"But  he's  taken  the  money!" 

"How  could  he  refuse  it?  It  would  have  meant  ruin. 
Oh,  he  didn't  know  when  he  sent  me  to  you — he'd  never 
have  done  that." 

"But  he  knew  when  he  kept  it?" 

"Yes,  he  knew  then.  He  couldn't  let  it  go  when  once 
he'd  got  it,  you  see.     Poor  old  John!" 

"Well,  that's  a  rum  thing!"  Caylesham's  code  was 
infringed  by  John's  action — that  was  plain :  but  his  hu- 
mour was  tickled  too.  "How  did  he — well,  how  did  he 
take  it?" 

"Awful!"  she  answered  with  a  shiver. 

"But  I  say,  you  know,  he  kept  the  money,  Christine." 

"That  makes  no  difference — or  makes  it  worse.  Oh, 
I  can't  tell  you!" 

"It  doesn't  make  it  worse  for  you  anyhow.  It  gives 
you  the  whip  hand,  doesn't  it?" 

She  did  not  heed  him;  she  was  set  on  pouring  out  her 
own  story. 


IN  THE  CORNER  255 

"It's  dreadful  at  home,  Frank.  Of  course  I  oughtn't 
to  talk  to  you,  of  all  people.  But  I've  had  two  months 
and  more  of  it  now." 

"He's  not  unkind  to  you?" 

"If  he  was,  what  do  I  deserve?  Oh,  don't  be  fierce. 
He  doesn't  throw  things  at  me,  like  Harriet  Courtland, 

or  beat  me.     But  I "  She  burst  into  a  little  laugh. 

"I'm  stood  in  the  corner  all  the  time,  Frank." 

"Poor  old  Christine!" 

"He  won't  be  friends.  He  keeps  me  off.  I  never  touch 
his  hand,  or  anything." 

A  long-dormant  jealousy   stirred   in    Caylesham. 

"Well,  do  you  want  to?"  he  asked  rather  brusquely. 

"Oh,  that's  all  very  well,  but  imagine  living  like  that ! 
There's  nobody  to  speak  to.  I'm  in  disgrace.  He  doesn't 
talk  about  it,  but  he  talks  round  it,  you  know.  Sometimes 
he  forgets  for  five  minutes.  Then  I  say  something  cheer- 
ful. Then  he  remembers  and — and  sends  me  back  to  my 
corner."  Her  rueful  laugh  was  not  far  from  a  sob.  "It's 
awfully  humiliating,"  she  ended,  "and — and  most  fright- 
fully dull." 

"But  how  can  he ?" 

"One  good  scene  would  have  been  so  much  more  en- 
durable.    But  all  day  and  every  day!" 

Caylesham  was  amused,  vexed,  exasperated. 

"But,  good  heavens,  it's  not  as  if  it  was  an  ordinary 
case.    Remember  what  he's  done  !    Why  do  you  stand  it  ?" 

"How  can  I  help  it  ?    I  did  the  thing,  didn't  I  ?" 

His  voice  rose  a  little  in  his  impatience. 

"But  he's  taken  my  money.  He's  living  on  it.  It's 
saved  him.  By  gad,  how  can  he  say  anything  to  you  after 
that?  Haven't  you  got  your  answer?  Why  don't  you 
remind  him  gently  of  that?" 


256  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"That  would  hurt  him  so  dreadfully." 

"Well,  doesn't  he  hurt  you?" 

"He'd  never  be  friends  with  me  again." 

"He  doesn't  seem  particularly  friendly  now." 

"I  feel  quite  friendly  to  him.     I  want  to  be  friends." 

"It  does  you  credit  then,"  he  said  with  a  sneer. 

She  pressed  his  arm  lightly  again,  pleading  against  his 
anger  and  his  unwonted  failure  to  understand. 

"It  would  be  an  end  of  all  hope  if  I  threw  the  money  in 
his  teeth.  He's  unhappy  enough  about  it  as  it  is."  She 
looked  up  as  she  added,  "I've  got  to  live  with  him,  you 
know,  Frank." 

Caylesham  gave  her  a  curious  quick  glance. 

"Got  to  live  with  him?" 

"Yes;  all  my  life,"  she  answered.  "I  suppose  you 
hadn't  thought  of  that?" 

It  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  which  Caylesham  was  in 
the  habit  of  thinking  about,  but  he  tried  to  follow  her 
view. 

"Yes,  of  course.  It  would  be  better  to  be  friends.  But 
you  shouldn't  let  him  get  on  stilts.  It's  absurd,  after  what 
he's  done.  I  mean — I  mean  he's  done  a  much  queerer 
thing  than  you  have." 

"Poor  old  John!     How  could  he  help  it?" 

He  glanced  at  her  sharply  and  was  about  to  speak, 
when  she  cried,  "Why,  where  are  we?  I  didn't  notice 
where  we  were  going." 

"We're  just  outside  my  rooms.     Come  in  for  a  bit." 

"No,  I  can't  come  in.  I'm  late  now,  and — and — 
really  I'm  ashamed  to  tell  even  you!  Well,  I'm  al- 
ways questioned  where  I've  been.  I  have  to  give 
an  account  of  every  place.  I  have  to  stand  with  my 
hands  behind  me  and  give  an  account  of  all  my  move- 
ments, Frank." 


IN   THE   CORNER  257 

He  whistled  gently  and  compassionately. 

"Like  a  schoolgirl!" 

"How  well  you  follow  the  metaphor,  Frank!  So  I 
can't  come  in.     I'll  go  home.    No,  don't  you  come." 

"I'll  come  a  bit  farther  with  you.  Oh,  it's  quite 
dark." 

"Well,  not  arm-in-arm!" 

"But  doesn't  that  look  more  respectable?" 

"You're  entirely  incurable,"  she  said,  with  her  old 
pleasure  in  him  all  revived. 

"It's  infernal  nonsense,"  he  went  on.  "Just  you  stand 
up  for  yourself.  It's  absolute  humbug  in  him.  He's  de- 
barred himself  from  taking  up  any  such  attitude — just  as 
much  as  he  has  from  making  any  public  row  about  it. 
Hang  it,  he  can't  have  it  both  ways,  Christine !" 

"I've  got  to  live  with  him,  Frank." 

"Oh,  you  said  that  before." 

"And  I'm  very  fond  of  him." 

"What?"  He  turned  to  her  in  a  genuine  surprise  and 
an  obvious  vexation. 

"Yes,  very.  I  always  was.  We  used  to  spar,  but  we 
were  good  friends.  We  don't  spar  now;  I  wish  we  did. 
It's  just  icyness.     But  I'm  very  fond  of  him." 

"Of  course,  if  you  feel  like  that " 

"I  always  felt  like  that,  even — even  long  ago.  I  used 
to  tell  you  I  did.     I  suppose  you  thought  that  humbug?" 

"Well,  it  wouldn't  have  been  very  strange  if  I  had." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  It  must  have  looked  like  that. 
But  it  was  true — and  it  is  true.  The  only  thing  I've  got 
left  to  care  much  about  in  life  is  getting  to  be  friends  with 
John  again — and  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall."  Her 
voice  fairly  broke  for  a  moment.  "That's  what  upset  me 
so  much  when  I  saw  those  silly  children  at  Kate  Ray- 
more's." 


258  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Caylesham  looked  at  her.  There  was  a  roguish  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  but  he  patted  her  hand  in  a  very  friendly  sym- 
pathy. 

"I  say,  old  John's  cut  me  out  after  all!"  he  whispered. 

"You're  scandalous!  You  always  were,"  she  said, 
smiling.  uThe  way  you  put  things  was  always  disrepu- 
table. Yes,  it  was,  Frank.  But  no ;  it's  not  poor  old  John 
who's  cut  you  out — or  at  least  it's  John  in  a  particular 
capacity.  Life's  cut  you  out — John  as  life.  John,  as  life, 
has  cut  you  out  of  my  life — and  now  I've  got  to  live  with 
John,  you  see." 

Caylesham  screwed  up  his  mouth  ruefully.  Things  cer- 
tainly seemed  to  shape  that  way.  She  had  to  live  with 
John.  John's  conduct  might  be  unreasonable  and  un- 
justifiable, but  people  who  must  be  lived  with  frequently 
presume  on  that  circumstance  and  behave  as  they  would 
not  venture  to  behave  if  living  with  them  were  optional. 
John  really  had  not  a  leg  to  stand  on,  if  it  came  to  an  argu- 
ment. But  arguing  with  people  you  have  to  live  with  does 
not  conduce  to  the  comfort  of  living  with  them — especially 
if  you  get  the  better  of  the  argument.  He  was  exceed- 
ingly sorry  for  Christine,  but  he  didn't  see  any  way  out 
of  it  for  her. 

"Of  course  there's  a  funny  side  to  it,"  she  said  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is,"  he  admitted.  "But  it's  deuced 
rough  luck  on  you." 

"Everything's  deuced  rough  luck."  She  mimicked  his 
tone  daintily.  "And  I  don't  suppose  it's  ever  anything 
worse  with  you,  Frank!  It  was  deuced  rough  luck  ever 
meeting  you,  you  know.  And  so  it  was  that  John  wanted 
money  and  sent  me  to  you.  And  that  Harriet's  got  a 
temper,  and,  I  suppose,  that  we've  got  to  be  punished 
for  our  sins."     She  took  her  arm  out  of  his — she  had 


IN  THE  CORNER  259 

slipped  it  in  again  while  she  talked  about  John  as  life. 
4 'And  here  I  am,  just  at  home,  and — and  the  corner's  wait- 
ing for  me,  Frank." 

"I'm  devilish  sorry,  Christine." 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  you  are.  You  always  meant  to  be  kind. 
Frank,  if  ever  I  do  make  friends  with  John,  be  glad,  won't 


you?' 


I  think  he's  behaved  like  a- 


"Hush,  hush!  You've  always  been  prosperous — and 
you've  never  been  good."  She  laughed  and  took  his  hand. 
"So  don't  say  anything  against  poor  old  John." 

"I  tell  you  what — you're  a  brick,  Christine.  Well, 
good-bye,  my  dear." 

4 'Good-bye,  Frank.  I'm  glad  I  met  you.  I've  got 
some  of  it  out,  haven't  I?  Don't  worry — well,  no,  you 
won't — and  if  I  succeed,  do  try  to  be  glad.  And  never  a 
word  to  show  John  that  I've  told  you  he  knows !" 

"I  shall  do  just  as  you  like  about  that.  Good-bye, 
Christine." 

He  left  her  a  few  yards  from  her  house,  and  she  stood 
by  the  door  watching  his  figure  till  it  disappeared  in  the 
dark.  He  had  done  her  so  much  harm.  He  was  not  a 
good  friend.  But  he  was  good  to  talk  to,  and  very  kind 
in  his  indolent  careless  way.  If  you  recalled  yourself  to 
him,  he  was  glad  to  see  you  and  ready  to  be  talked  to.  A 
moment  of  temptation  came  upon  her — the  temptation  to 
throw  up  everything,  as  Tom  Courtland  had  thrown  every- 
thing up,  to  abandon  the  hard  task,  to  give  up  trying  for 
the  only  thing  she  wanted.  But  Caylesham  had  given  her 
no  such  invitation.  He  did  not  want  her — that  was  the 
plain  English  of  it — and  she  did  not  want  him  in  the  end 
either.  She  had  loved  the  thing  and  still  loved  the  memory 
of  it;  but  she  did  not  desire  it  again,  because  in  it  there 
was  no  peace.     She  wanted  a  friend — and  John  would 


260  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

not  be  one.  Nobody  wanted  her — except  John;  and  be- 
cause he  wanted  her,  he  was  so  hard  to  her.  But  Frank 
Caylesham  had  been  in  his  turn  too  hard  on  John.  She 
was  the  only  person  who  could  realise  John's  position  and 
make  allowances  for  him.  Yet  all  the  light  died  out  of 
her  face  as  she  entered  her  home. 

John  was  waiting  for  her.  His  mind  was  full  of  how 
well  things  were  going  in  the  City.  In  the  old  days  this 
would  have  been  one  of  their  merry,  happy,  united  even- 
ings. He  would  have  told  her  of  his  success,  and  "stood" 
a  dinner  and  a  play,  and  brought  her  home  in  the  height 
of  glee  and  good  companionship,  laughing  at  her  sharp 
sayings,  and  admiring  her  dainty  little  face.  All  this  was 
just  what  he  wanted  to  do  now,  and  his  life  was  as  arid 
as  hers  for  want  of  the  comradeship.  But  he  would  not 
forgive;  it  seemed  neither  possible  nor  self-respecting. 
That  very  weak  point  in  his  case,  with  which  Caylesham 
had  dealt  so  trenchantly,  made  him  a  great  stickler  for 
self-respect;  nothing  must  be  done — nothing  more — to 
make  her  think  that  he  condoned  her  offence  or  treated  it 
lightly.  It  was  part  of  her  punishment  to  hear  nothing 
of  the  renewed  prosperity  in  the  City,  to  know  nothing 
of  his  thoughts  or  his  doings,  to  be  locked  out  of  his 
heart.  This  was  one  side;  the  other  was  that  obligation 
to  make  full  disclosure  of  all  she  did,  and  of  how  her  time 
was  spent.  She  must  be  made  to  feel  the  thing  in  these 
two  ways  every  day.  Yet  he  considered  that  he  was  treat- 
ing her  very  mercifully;  he  was  anxious  to  do  that,  be- 
cause he  was  all  the  time  in  his  heart  afraid  that  she 
would  throw  Caylesham's  money — the  money  which  was 
bringing  the  renewed  prosperity — in  his  face. 

She  faced  the  punishment  with  her  usual  courage  and 
her  unfailing  humour.     There  was  open  irony  in  the  mi- 


IN   THE   CORNER  261 

nuteness  with  which  she  catalogued  her  day's  doings;  she 
did  not  sit  down,  but  stood  on  the  other  side  of  his  writing- 
table,  upright  and  with  her  hands  actually  behind  her — 
because  she  liked  the  schoolgirl  parallel  which  Caylesham 
had  drawn.  John  saw  the  humour  and  felt  the  irony,  but 
he  was  helpless.  She  did  what  she  was  told;  he  could 
not  control  the  manner  in  which  she  did  it. 

uAnd  then  I  walked  home — yes,  walked.  Didn't  take 
a  bus,  or  a  tram,  or  a  steam-engine.  I  just  walked  on  my 
two  legs,  going  about  three  miles  an  hour,  and — oh,  yes — 
taking  one  wrong  turn,  which  makes  me  five  minutes  later 
than  I  ought  to  be.  Quite  a  respectable  turn — just  out 
of  the  way,  that's  all.  May  I  go  and  get  myself  some 
tea?" 

He  did  so  want  to  tell  her  about  the  successes  in  the 
city.  And  in  fact  he  admired  the  courage  and  liked  the 
irony.  They  were  her  own,  and  of  her.  Doing  justice 
was  very  hard,  with  that  provoking  dainty  face  at  once 
resenting  and  mocking  at  it.  But  justice  must  be  done ;  his 
grievance  should  not  be  belittled. 

"I'm  not  stopping  you  getting  yourself  tea.  Is  it  a 
crime  to  ask  where  my  wife's  been?" 

"It's  mere  prudence,  I'm  sure.  Only  what  makes  you 
think  I  should  tell  you  the  truth?" 

She  had  her  tea  now — a  second  tea — and  was  sipping 
it  leisurely. 

"At  any  rate  I  know  your  account,  and  if  I  heard  any- 
thing different " 

"That's  the  method?  I  see."  Her  tone  softened. 
"Don't  let's  quarrel.  What's  the  good?  Had  a  good 
day  in  the  city?" 

"Just  like  other  days,"  grunted  John. 

"Nothing  particular?" 


262  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"No." 

"There  never  is  now,  is  there?" 

He  made  no  answer.  Opening  the  evening  paper,  he 
began  to  read  it.  Christine  knew  what  that  meant.  Saving 
what  was  unavoidable,  he  would  talk  no  more  to  her  that 
night. 

The  wound  to  her  vanity,  her  thwarted  affection,  her 
sense  of  the  absurdity  of  such  a  way  of  living  together,  all 
combined  to  urge  her  to  take  Caylesham's  view  of  the 
position,  and  to  act  upon  it — to  make  the  one  reply,  the 
one  defence,  which  was  open  to  her.  The  very  words 
which  she  would  use  came  into  her  mind  as  she  sat  opposite 
to  John  at  dinner.  Living  on  Caylesham's  generosity — it 
would  be  scarcely  an  exaggeration  to  say  that.  And  from 
what  motive  came  the  bounty?  It  would  not  be  hard  to 
find  words — stinging  words — to  define  that.  John  could 
have  no  answer  to  them;  they  must  shame  him  to  the  soul. 
At  every  sullen  short  word,  at  every  obstinate  punitive 
silence,  the  temptation  grew  upon  her.  Knowing  that  she 
knew  all,  how  could  he  have  the  effrontery  to  behave  in 
this  fashion?  She  steeled  herself  to  the  fight;  she  was 
ready  for  it  by  the  time  dinner  was  done  and  they  were  left 
alone,  John  sitting  in  glum  muteness  as  he  drank  his  port, 
Christine  in  her  smart  evening  frock,  displaying  a  pretti- 
ness  which  won  no  approving  glances  now.  It  was  insuf- 
ferable— she  would  do  it ! 

Ah,  but  poor  old  John !  He  had  been  through  so  many 
worries,  he  had  so  narrowly  escaped  dire  calamity.  He 
had  been  forced  into  a  position  so  terrible.  And  they  had 
been  through  so  many  things  together;  they  had  been 
comrades  in  fair  and  foul  weather.  What  would  be  the 
look  in  his  eyes  when  he  heard  that  taunt  from  her?  He 
would  say  little,  since  there  would  be  little  to  say — but  he 
would  give  her  a  look  of  such  hopeless  fierce  misery.    No; 


IN  THE  CORNER  263 

in  the  end  she  was  responsible  for  the  thing,  and  she  must 
bear  the  burden  of  it.  Caylesham's  view  might  be  the 
man's  view,  perhaps  the  right  view  for  a  man  to  take.  It 
could  not  be  the  woman's;  the  wife  was  not  justified  in 
looking  at  it  like  that.    No,  she  couldn't  do  it. 

But  neither  could  she  go  on  living  like  this.  Her  eyes 
rested  thoughtfully  on  him.  He  was  looking  tired  and  old. 
Poor  old  John !  He  wanted  livening  up,  some  merriment, 
a  little  playful  petting  to  which  he  might  respond  in  his 
roughly  jocose,  affectionately  homely  fashion — with  his 
"old  girl"  and  uold  lady"  and  so  on.  He  never  called  her 
"old  girl"  now.  Would  she  hate  it  as  much  now?  She 
longed  for  it  extraordinarily,  since  it  would  mark  happi- 
ness and  forgetfulness  in  him.  But  it  seemed  as  if  she 
would  never  hear  it  again.  Suddenly  she  broke  out  with 
a  passionate  question: 

"Are  we  to  live  like  this  always?" 

He  did  not  seem  startled;  he  answered  slowly  and  pon- 
derously; "What  have  you  to  complain  of?  Do  I  say 
anything?  Do  I  reproach  you?  Have  I  made  a  row? 
Look  at  what  I  might  have  done!  Some  people  would 
think  you  were  very  lucky." 

"It  makes  you  miserable  as  well  as  me." 

"You  should  have  thought  of  all  that  before." 

He  took  out  a  cigar  and  lit  it,  then  turned  his  chair  half 
way  round  from  the  table,  and  began  to  read  his  paper 
again.  Christine  could  not  bear  it;  she  began  to  sob  softly. 
He  took  no  visible  notice  of  her;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  a 
paragraph  and  he  was  reading  it  over  and  over  again,  not 
following  in  the  least  what  it  meant.  She  rose  and  walked 
toward  the  door;  he  remained  motionless.  She  came  back 
toward  him  in  a  hesitating  way. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said,  choking  down  her 
sobs  and  regaining  composure. 


264  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

He  looked  up  now.  There  was  fear  in  his  eyes,  a 
hunted  look  which  went  to  her  heart.  At  the  least  invita- 
tion she  would  have  thrown  herself  on  her  knees  by  him 
and  sought  every  means  to  comfort  him.  She  was  thinking 
only  of  him  now,  and  had  forgotten  Caylesham's  gay  at- 
tractiveness. And  in  face  of  that  look  in  his  eyes  she  could 
not  say  a  word  about  Caylesham's  money. 

"I'm  going  away  for  a  little  while,  John.  I'm  going  to 
ask  Sibylla  to  let  me  come  down  to  Milldean  for  a  bit." 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  away  for?" 

"A  change  of  air,"  she  answered,  smiling  derisively.  "I 
can't  bear  this,  you  know.  It's  intolerable — and  it's  ab- 
surd." 

"Am  I  to  blame  for  it?" 

"I'm  not  talking  about  who's  to  blame.  But  I  must  go 
away." 

"How  long  do  you  want  to  stay  away?" 

"Till  you  want  me  back- — till  you  ask  me  to  come  back." 
He  looked  at  her  questioningly.  "It  must  be  one  thing 
or  the  other,"  she  went  on. 

"It's  for  me  to  decide  what  it  shall  be." 

"Yes;  which  of  the  two  possible  things.  It's  for  you  to 
decide  that.  But  this  state  of  things  isn't  possible.  If  you 
don't  want  me  back,  well,  we  must  make  arrangements. 
If  you  ask  me  to  come  back,  you'll  mean  that  you  want  to 
forget  all  this  wretchedness  and  be  really  friends.  Her 
feeling  broke  out.  "Yes,  friends  again,"  she  repeated, 
holding  her  arms  out  toward  him. 

"You  seem  to  think  things  are  very  easily  forgotten," 
he  growled. 

"God  knows  I  don't  think  so,"  she  said.  "Do  you  really 
think  that's  what  I've  learnt  from  life,  John?" 

"At  any  rate  I've  got  to  forget  them  pretty  easily!" 

She  would  not  trust  herself  to  argue,  lest  in  the  heat 


IN  THE  CORNER  265 

of  contention  that  one  forbidden  weapon  should  leap  into 
her  hand. 

"We  can  neither  of  us  forget.  But  there's  another 
thing,"  she  said. 

He  would  not  give  up  his  idea,  his  theory  of  what  she 
deserved  and  of  what  morality  demanded. 

"You  may  go  for  a  visit.  I  shall  expect  you  back  in  two 
or  three  weeks." 

"Not  back  to  this,"  she  insisted. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  held  the  paper  up  be- 
tween them. 

"If  you  don't  want  me  back,  well,  I  shall  understand 
that.  But  I  shan't  come  back  to  this."  She  walked  to  the 
door,  and  looked  back;  she  could  not  see  his  face  for  the 
paper.  She  made  a  little  despairing  movement  with  her 
hands,  but  turned  away  again  without  saying  more,  and 
stole  quietly  out  of  the  room. 

John  Fanshaw  dashed  his  paper  to  the  ground  and 
sprang  to  his  feet.  He  gave  a  long  sigh.  He  had  been 
in  mortal  terror — he  thought  she  was  going  to  talk  about 
the  money.  That  peril  was  past.  He  flung  his  hardly 
lighted  cigar  into  the  grate,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  in  a  frenzy  of  unhappiness.  Yes,  that  peril  was 
past — she  had  said  nothing.  But  he  knew  it  was  in  her 
heart;  and  he  knew  how  it  must  appear  to  her.  Heavens, 
did  it  not  appear  like  that  to  him?  But  she  should  never 
know  that  he  felt  like  that  about  it.  That  would  be  to  give 
up  his  grievance,  to  abandon  his  superiority,  to  admit 
that  there  was  little  or  nothing  to  choose  between  them 
— between  her,  the  sinner,  and  him,  who  profited  by  the 
sin,  whose  salvation  the  sin  had  been,  who  knew  it  had 
been  his  salvation  and  had  accepted  salvation  from  it. 
No,  no ;  he  must  never  acknowledge  that.  He  must  stick 
to  his  position.  It  was  monstrous  to  think  he  would  own 
that  his  guilt  was  comparable  to  hers. 


266  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

He  sank  back  into  his  chair  again  and  looked  round  the 
empty  room.  He  thought  of  Christine  upstairs,  alone  too. 
What  a  state  of  things!  "Why  did  she?  My  God,  why 
did  she?"  he  muttered,  and  then  fell  to  lashing  himself  once 
more  into  a  useless  fury,  pricking  his  anger  lest  it  should 
sleep,  setting  imagination  to  work  on  recollection,  tortur- 
ing himself,  living  again  through  the  time  of  her  treachery, 
elaborating  all  his  grievance — lest  by  chance  she  should 
seem  less  of  a  sinner  than  before,  lest  by  chance  his  own 
act  should  loom  too  large,  lest  by  chance  he  might  be  weak 
and  open  his  heart  and  find  forgiveness  for  his  wife  and 
comrade. 

"By  God,  she  had  no  excuse!"  he  muttered,  striking  the 
table  with  his  fist.  "And  I —  why,  the  thing  was  settled 
before  I  knew.  It  was  settled,  I  say!"  Then  he  thought 
that  if  things  went  on  doing  well  he  would  be  able  to  pay 
Caylesham  sooner  that  the  letter  of  his  bond  demanded. 
Then,  when  he  had  paid  Caylesham  off— ah,  then  the 
superiority  would  be  in  no  danger,  there  would  be  no  taunt 
to  fear.  Why,  yes,  he  would  pay  Caylesham  off  quite  soon. 
Because  things  were  going  so  well.  Now,  to-day,  in  the 
City,  what  a  stroke  he  had  made  !  If  he  were  to  tell  Chris- 
tine that — !  For  a  moment  he  smiled,  thinking  how 
she  would  pat  his  cheek  and  say  "Clever  old  John!"  in 
her  pretty  half-derisive  way;  how  she  would 

He  broke  off  with  a  groan.  No,  by  heaven,  he'd  tell 
her  nothing!  His  life  was  nothing  to  her — thanks  to  what 
she'd  done — to  what  she  had  done.  Oh,  he  did  well  to  be 
angry ! — Even  to  think  of  what  she  had  done ! 

So  he  struggled,  lest  perchance  forgiveness  and  comrade- 
ship should  win  the  day. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

THE    HOUR    OF    WRATH 

AS  soon  as  the  first  shot  was  fired,  Tom  Courtland 
struck  his  flag.  There  was  no  fight  in  him.  His 
career  was  compromised,  and  by  now  his  affairs 
were  seriously  involved.  He  resigned  his  seat;  he  wasn't 
going  to  wait  to  be  turned  out,  he  said,  either  by  divorce 
or  by  bankruptcy,  or  by  both  at  once.  He  never  went 
home  now.  As  a  last  concession  to  appearances,  he  took 
a  room  at  his  club.  Mrs.  Bolton  now  urged  him  to  fight — 
since  things  had  gone  so  far.  Of  course  he  would  have  to 
tell  lies;  but  there  were  circumstances  in  which  everybody 
told  lies.  She  was  ready  to  back  him  through  thick  and 
thin.  If  they  could  get  Lady  Harriet  into  the  box  and 
cross-examine  her  thoroughly,  they  could  rely  on  a  great 
deal  of  sympathy  from  a  jury  of  husbands.  It  was  really 
a  good  fighting  case — given  the  lies,  of  course.  She  urged 
fighting,  which  was  unselfish  of  her  from  one  point  of  view, 
since  an  undefended  case  would  do  her  little  real  harm, 
while  a  cross-examination  in  open  Court  could  not  be  a 
pleasant  ordeal  for  her,  any  more  than  it  ought  to  be  for 
Harriet  Courtland.  But  she  liked  Tom — although  incur- 
able habit  had  caused  her  to  make  his  affairs  so  involved — 
and  she  hated  that  Harriet  should  "have  a  walk  over." 
She  was  angrv  with  Tom  because  he  gave  in  directly,  and 
took  it  all  "lying  down,"  as  she  said.  But  Tom  was 
broken;  he  could  only  mutter  that  he  did  not  "care  a  damn" 
what  they  did;  it  was  all  over  for  him.  His  bristly  hair 
began  to  turn  a  dull  gray  in  these  troublesome  days.  When 
he  was  not  with  Mrs.  Bolton  he  was  haunting  the  streets 

%67 


268  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

and  parks,  hoping  he  might  meet  his  girls  taking  their 
walk  with  the  maid  or  with  Suzette  Bligh.  Such  stray  en- 
counters were  his  only  chance  of  seeing  them  now — the 
only  chance  of  ever  seeing  them  in  the  future,  he  supposed, 
unless  the  Court  gave  him  "access."  And  much  pleasure 
there  would  be  in  access,  with  Harriet  to  tell  them  the  sort 
of  man  he  was  before  every  such  visit  as  the  law  might 
charingly  dole  out  to  him!  He  grumbled  disconsolately 
about  everything — the  suit,  his  affairs,  his  children,  the 
access,  all  of  it — to  Mrs.  Bolton;  but  he  did  and  attempted 
nothing.    He  was  in  a  condition  of  moral  collapse. 

Harriet  Courtland's  state  was  even  worse.  She  was 
almost  unapproachable  by  the  children  and  Suzette  Bligh 
— and  none  other  tried  to  approach  her.  She  had  no 
friends  left.  Not  one  of  Tom's  set  was  on  her  side;  she 
had  wearied  them  all  out.  The  last  to  keep  up  the  forms 
of  friendship  had  been  Christine  Fanshaw.  Now  that 
was  at  an  end  too.  She  had  heard  nothing  from  Christine. 
From  the  day  of  John's  visit  there  had  been  absolute  silence. 
She  knew  well  what  that  meant.  She  brooded  fiercely  over 
what  she  had  done  to  Christine — her  one  remaining  friend 
— had  done  not  because  she  wanted  to  hurt  Christine  or 
to  lose  her  friendship,  had  done  with  no  reasonable  motive 
at  all,  but  just  in  blind  rage,  because  in  her  fury  she  wanted 
to  strike  and  wound  John,  and  this  had  been  the  readiest 
and  sharpest  weapon.  She  could  not  get  what  she  had 
done  out  of  her  head;  she  was  driven  to  see  what  a  light  it 
cast  on  the  history  of  her  own  home;  it  showed  her  the  sort 
of  woman  she  was.  But  she  held  on  her  way,  and  pressed 
on  her  suit.  Realising  what  she  was  bred  in  her  no  desire 
to  change.  There  was  no  changing  such  a  woman  as  she 
was — a  cursed  woman,  as  she  called  herself  again  and 
again.  So  there  she  sat,  alone  in  her  room,  save  when  her 
nervous  children  came  perforce  to  cower  before  her — alone 


THE  HOUR  OF  WRATH  269 

in  the  ruin  she  had  made,  in  bitter  wrath  with  all  about  her, 
in  bitterest  wrath  with  herself.  She  was  a  terror  in  the 
house,  and  knew  it.  Nobody  in  the  house  loved  her  now — 
nay,  nobody  in  the  world.  It  had  come  to  this  because  of 
her  evil  rage.  And  the  rage  was  not  satiated;  it  had  an 
appetite  still  for  every  misfortune  and  every  shame  which 
was  to  afflict  and  disgrace  her  husband.  In  that  lay  now 
her  only  pleasure;  her  sole  joy  was  to  give  pain.  Yet  the 
thought  that  her  girls  had  ceased  to  love  her,  or  had  come 
to  hate  her,  drove  her  to  a  frenzy  of  anger  and  wretched- 
ness. What  had  they  to  complain  of?  How  dared  they 
not  love  her?  She  exacted  signs  of  love  from  them.  They 
dared  not  refuse  a  kiss  for  fear  of  a  blow  being  given  in  its 
place ;  but  Harriet  knew  now  why  they  kissed  her  and  ac- 
cepted her  kisses.  "Little  hypocrites !"  she  would  mutter 
when  they  went  out,  accusing  the  work  of  her  own  hands. 
But  they  should  love  her — aye,  and  they  should  hate  their 
father.  She  swore  they  should  at  least  hate  their  father, 
even  if  they  only  pretended  to  love  her.  The  woman  grew 
half  mad  at  the  idea  that  in  their  hearts  they  loved  their 
father,  pitied  him,  thought  him  ill-used,  grieved  because 
he  came  no  more;  that  they  were  in  their  hearts  on  their 
father's  side  and  against  her.  She  wished  they  were  older, 
so  that  they  could  be  told  all  about  the  case.  Well,  they 
should  be  told  even  now,  if  need  be,  if  that  proved  the  only 
way  of  rooting  the  love  of  their  father  out  of  their  hearts. 
An  evil  case  for  these  poor  children  !  They  had  no  com- 
fort save  in  gentle  colourless  Suzette  Bligh.  To  all  her 
friends  she  had  seemed  a  superfluous  person.  She  used  to 
be  invited  just  to  balance  dinner  parties,  or  on  a  stray 
impulse  of  kindness.  But  fate  had  found  other  work  for 
her  now.  The  once  useless  superfluous  woman  was  all  the 
consolation  these  three  children  had ;  any  love  they  got  she 
gave  them.    She  stood  between  them  and  desolation.    She 


270  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

warned  them  what  temper  their  mother  was  in,  whether 
it  were  safe  to  approach  her,  and  with  what  demeanour. 
More  than  once  her  love  gave  the  meek  creature  courage, 
and  she  stood  between  them  and  wrath.  Lamentable,  as 
the  state  of  affairs  was,  Suzette  had  found  a  new  joy  in  life. 
She  took  these  children  into  her  life  and  her  heart,  and 
became  as  a  mother  to  them.  Gradually  they  grew  to  love 
her. 

But  none  the  less — perhaps  all  the  more — they  tor- 
mented her,  bringing  to  her  all  the  doubts  and  questions 
which  were  rife  in  their  minds.  The  portentous  word 
"divorce"  had  come  to  their  ears — Harriet  was  not  care- 
ful in  her  use  of  it.  They  connected  it  quickly  with  their 
father's  now  continuous  absence.  Whatever  else  it  might 
mean — and  they  thought  it  meant  something  bad  for  their 
father,  to  be  suffered  at  the  hands  of  their  mother — they 
understood  it  at  least  to  mean  that  he  would  be  with  them 
no  more.  Suzette  knew  nothing  at  all  about  "access,"  and 
could  only  fence  feebly  with  their  questions ;  they  ventured 
to  put  none  to  Harriet.  They  grew  clear  that  their  father 
had  gone,  and  that  they  were  to  be  left  to  their  mother. 

One  and  all  they  declined  such  a  conclusion.  They  loved 
Tom;  they  did  not  love  Harriet.  Tom  had  always  been 
a  refuge,  sometimes  a  buffer.  They  had  no  doubt  of  what 
they  wanted.  They  wanted  to  go  to  their  father,  and  to 
take  Suzette  Bligh  with  them.  That  scheme  conjured  up 
the  vision  of  a  happy  home,  free  from  fear,  where  kisses 
would  be  volunteered,  not  exacted,  and  the  constant  dread 
would  be  no  more. 

"But  we  daren't  tell  mamma  that,"  said  Sophy,  in  a 
tremble  at  the  bare  idea. 

Lucv  shook  her  head;  Vera's  eyes  grew  wide.  They 
certainly  dared  not  go  to  Harriet  with  any  such  communi- 
cation as  that.     They  had  been  shrewd  enough  to  see  that 


THE  HOUR  OF  WRATH  271 

they  were  expected  to  hate  their  father:  Vera  had  been 
roughly  turned  out  of  the  room  merely  for  mentioning  his 
name. 

After  much  consultation,  carried  on  in  a  secrecy  to  which 
not  even  Suzette  was  privy,  a  plan  was  laid.  They  would 
write  to  their  father  and  tell  him  that,  whether  he  were 
sentenced  to  divorce  or  not,  they  wanted  to  come  and  live 
with  him — and  to  bring  Suzette  if  they  might. 

"We  won't  say  anything  about  mamma.  He'll  under- 
stand," Sophy  observed. 

Vera  piped  out  in  terror: 

"But  when  mamma  finds  out?" 

"We  shall  be  gone,  don't  you  see?"  cried  Lucy.  "We 
shall  ask  papa  to  meet  us  somewhere,  and  he'll  take  us  with 
him,  and  then  just  write  and  tell  mamma." 

"He  can  say  we're  sorry  when  he  writes  to  tell  mamma." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  said  Vera.  "It  will  be  splendid,  won't 
it?    I  wish  we  could  tell  Suzette!" 

The  elder  girls  were  dead  against  that.  Suzette  was  a 
dear,  but  she  was  too  much  afraid  of  mamma;  the  great 
secret  would  not  be  safe  with  her,  and  if  it  were  discovered 
before  they  were  out  of  reach — significant  nods  expressed 
that  situation  with  absolute  lucidity. 

So  Sophy — who  wrote  the  best  hand — squared  her  el- 
bows and  sat  down  to  her  task  in  the  schoolroom.  A  scout 
was  posted  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  another  at  the  top.  On 
the  least  alarm  the  letter  was  to  be  destroyed,  and  the 
scribe  would  be  discovered  busy  on  a  French  exercise. 

"Dearest  Papa,"  Sophy  wrote, — 

"We  all  send  our  love,  and,  please,  we  do  not  want 
to  stay  here  now  that  you  have  gone  away.  Please  let  us 
come  and  live  with  you.  We  promise  not  to  be  trouble- 
some, and  Suzette  might  come  too,  might  not  she,  and  look 


272  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

after  us?  Dearest  papa,  do  not  make  us  stay  here.  Be- 
cause we  love  you,  and  we  want  to  come  and  live  with  you. 
Please  tell  us  where  to  meet  you,  and  we  will  make  Suzette 
bring  us,  and  you  can  take  us  home  with  you.  Please  let 
it  be  soon.  We  do  so  want  to  see  you.  Please  do  not 
make  us  stay  here.  We  each  of  us  send  you  a  kiss,  and 
are  your  loving  daughters." 

The  signatures  were  attached,  the  letter  closed  and  ad- 
dressed to  Tom's  club ;  they  knew  where  that  was,  because 
he  had  taken  them  to  see  it  one  Sunday  morning,  and  they 
had  admired  the  great  armchairs  and  all  the  wonderful 
big  books.  The  same  afternoon  Lucy  broke  away  from 
Suzette,  ran  across  to  a  pillar  post,  and  dropped  the  im- 
portant missive  in.  She  came  back  with  an  air  of  devil- 
may-care  triumph,  nodding  at  her  sisters,  frankly  refusing 
to  tell  Suzette  anything  about  it. 

"You'll  see  very  soon,"  she  promised  in  mysterious 
triumph,  and  that  evening  the  three  had  a  wonderful  talk 
over  the  letter,  speaking  in  low  cautious  tones,  agreeing 
that  their  manner  must  be  carefully  guarded,  that  meek- 
ness and  affection  toward  their  mother  must  be  the  order 
of  the  day,  and  that  one  of  them  must  always  be  on  the 
watch  for  the  postman's  coming,  lest  by  chance  Tom's 
answer  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 

"Would  she  open  it?"  shuddered  Vera. 

"I  expect  she  would,"  said  Sophy. 

They  saw  the  danger,  and  the  hours  were  anxious.  But 
they  tasted  some  of  the  delights  of  conspiracy  too.  And 
hope  was  on  the  horizon.  One  more  "row"  could  be  en- 
dured if  after  that  the  doors  were  open  to  freedom. 

Tom's  heart  was  touched  by  the  little  scrawl,  written 
on  a  sheet  torn  from  a  copy  book.  In  his  broken-down 
state  he  was  inclined  to  be  maudlin  over  it.     He  carried 


THE  HOUR  OF  WRATH  273 

it  to  Mrs.  Bolton,  and  showed  it  to  her,  saying  that  he 
could  not  be  such  a  bad  chap  after  all  if  the  little  ones 
loved  him  like  that,  pitying  them  because  they  were  ex- 
posed to  Harriet's  tempers,  bewailing  his  own  inability 
to  help  them,  or  to  comply  with  their  artless  request. 

"I  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  keep  them,"  he  said  ruefully, 
trying  to  smooth  his  bristly  hair. 

Mrs.  Bolton  made  a  show  of  sympathy,  and  was  in  fact 
sorry  for  him;  but  she  did  not  encourage  any  idea  of  trying 
to  take  or  keep  them.  He  suggested  smuggling  them  out 
of  the  jurisdiction.  She  was  firm,  if  kindly,  in  asking  how 
he  meant  to  support  them.  Anyhow  Lady  Harriet  could 
feed  them !  Tom  was  very  much  under  her  influence,  and 
had  no  longer  the  strength  of  will  needed  for  any  venturous 
plan.  The  conclusion  that  he  could  do  nothing  was  not 
long  in  coming  home  to  him. 

"But  I  must  write  to  the  poor  little  things,"  he  said, 
"and  tell  them  I  shall  come  and  see  them  sometimes. 
That'll  comfort  them.  I'm  glad  they're  so  fond  of  me. 
By  Jove,  I  haven't  been  a  bad  father,  you  know!"  He 
read  Sophy's  letter  over  again  and  laid  it  down  on  Mrs. 
Bolton's  mantelpiece;  when  he  went  back  to  the  club  he 
forgot  it  and  left  it  there. 

There  Mrs.  Bolton's  friend,  Miss  Pattie  Henderson  (she 
was  not  married  to  Georgie  Parmenter  yet — negotiations 
were  pending  with  his  family),  found  it,  and  it  was  from 
her  that  a  suggestion  came  which  appealed  strongly  to  Mrs. 
Bolton.  As  she  drank  her  glass  of  port,  Miss  Henderson 
opined  that  it  would  be  "a  rare  score"  to  send  the  letter  to 
Harriet  Courtland.  "It'll  make  her  properly  furious," 
said  Miss  Pattie,  finishing  her  port  with  hearty  enjoyment. 

Mrs.  Bolton  caught  at  the  notion.  Harriet  was  putting 
her  to  a  great  deal  of  annoyance,  and  so  was  Tom's  refusal 
to  stand  up  to  Harriet.     It  was  meet  and  right  that  any 


274  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

person  who  was  in  a  position  to  give  Harriet  a  dig  should 
give  it.  Neither  of  them  thought  of  what  might  be  en- 
tailed on  the  little  folk  who  had  dared  to  send  the  letter; 
in  the  end  they  had  a  very  inadequate  idea  of  the  terror 
Harriet  inspired.  Mrs.  Bolton  laughed  as  she  contem- 
plated the  plan. 

"Just  stick  in  a  word  or  two  of  your  own,"  Miss  Pattie 
advised.     "Something  spicy !" 

Mrs.  Bolton  at  once  thought  of  several  spicy  little  com- 
ments which  would  add  point  to  Sophy's  letter.  One  was 
so  spicy,  so  altogether  satisfying  to  Mrs.  Bolton's  soul  and 
to  Miss  Pattie  Henderson's  critical  taste,  that  it  was  irre- 
sistible. It — and  Sophy's  letter — were  posted  to  Harriet 
before  lunch  that  day;  and  Mrs.  Bolton's  eyes  were  only 
opened  at  all  to  what  she  had  done  when  she  told  Cayle- 
sham (who  had  dropped  in  in  the  afternoon),  and  heard 
him  exclaim : 

"But,  by  Jove,  she'll  take  it  out  of  those  unhappy  chil- 
dren, you  know !  I  say,  you  don't  know  Harriet  Courtland, 
or  you'd  never  have  done  that !" 

His  concern  seemed  so  great  that  Mrs.  Bolton's  heart 
was  troubled.  If  she  did  not  upbraid  herself,  at  any  rate 
she  denounced  Miss  Henderson.  But  what  was  to  be 
done?  Nothing  could  be  done.  By  now  the  letter  must 
be  almost  in  Harriet  Courtland's  hands.  Caylesham  said 
a  few  plain  words  about  the  matter,  but  his  words  could 
not  help  now.  They  had,  however,  one  effect.  They  made 
Mrs.  Bolton  afraid  to  let  Tom  know  what  she  had  done: 
and  she  persuaded  Caylesham  not  to  betray  her.  When 
Tom  next  came  she  told  him  that  she  had  accidentally 
burnt  Sophy's  letter  in  mistake  for  one  of  her  own. 

"Well,  I've  sent  them  an  answer,  poor  little  beggars — 
under  cover  to  Suzette  Bligh,"  said  Tom.  "But  I'm  sorry. 
I  should  have  liked  to  keep  that  letter  of  theirs,  Flora," 


THE  HOUR  OF  WRATH  275 

"I  know.  Of  course  you  would.  I'm  sorry,"  said  Mrs. 
Bolton,  now  feeling  very  uncomfortable,  although  she  had 
not  lost  her  pleasure  at  the  idea  of  giving  Harriet  such  a 
fine  dig. 

Tom's  letter  reached  its  destination  first,  and  Suzette 
read  it  to  the  little  girls.  It  was  a  kind  and  a  good  letter. 
He  told  them  to  behave  well  toward  their  mother,  and  to 
love  her.  He  said  he  was  obliged  to  be  away  from  them 
now,  but  presently  he  would  see  them  and  hoped  to  see 
them  very  often,  and  that  they  were  not  to  forget  to  go  on 
loving  him,  because  he  loved  them  very  much. 

Suzette's  voice  broke  a  little  over  the  letter,  and  the  chil- 
dren listened  in  an  intent  and  rather  awed  silence.  They 
were  divided  between  relief  that  an  answer  had  come  safe- 
ly, and  depression  at  what  the  answer  was.  But  they  un- 
derstood— or  thought  they  did — that,  if  they  were  good 
they  would  presently  be  allowed  to  see  their  father  very 
often. 

"That's  what  he  means,  isn't  it?"  Lucy  asked  Suzette. 

"Yes,  dear,  that's  it,"  Suzette  told  her,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  tell  her. 

"We'd  better  burn  papa's  letter,"  Sophy  suggested. 

There  was  no  difference  of  opinion  about  that.  Vera 
was  accorded  the  privilege  of  putting  it  in  the  fire,  and 
of  stamping  carefully  on  the  ashes  afterward. 

"Because,"  she  said,  justifying  this  precaution,  "you  re- 
member the  story  where  the  man  was  found  out  just  because 
he  didn't  stamp  on  it  after  he'd  burnt  it,  Sophy!" 

This  was  the  last  day  on  which  Tom  Courtland  was  en- 
titled to  put  in  a  defence  to  his  wife's  suit.  He  had  made 
no  sign.  Harriet  was  the  fiercer  against  him.  His  ruin 
was  not  enough;  she  desired  herself  to  see  it  made  visible 
and  embodied  in  a  trial  whose  every  word  and  proceeding 
should  aggravate  his  shame  and  satisfy  her  resentment. 


276  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

She  had  nursed  the  thought  of  that,  making  pictures  of 
him  and  of  the  woman  undergoing  the  ordeal  and  being 
branded  with  guilt  while  all  the  world  looked  on.  Now 
Tom  refused  her  this  delight;  there  would  be  no  trial, 
because  he  would  not  fight. 

It  was  a  fine  moment  for  the  letter  to  arrive.  The  mine 
was  all  laid,  only  the  match  was  wanting.  Harriet  was 
dressing  for  dinner  when  it  came;  her  maid  Garrett  was 
doing  her  hair  before  the  glass.  As  she  read,  Garrett  saw 
a  sudden  change  come  over  her  face — one  quick  flush,  then 
a  tight  setting  of  her  lips.  Garrett  knew  the  signs  by  ex- 
perience. Something  in  that  letter  had  upset  her  ladyship. 
Warily  and  gently  Garrett  handled  her  ladyship's  hair;  if 
she  blundered  in  her  task  now,  woe  to  her,  for  her  lady- 
ship's temper  was  upset. 

"Dearest  papa,  do  not  make  us  stay  here.  Because 
we  love  you  and  we  want  to  come  and  live  with  you." — 
"Please  do  not  make  us  stay  here." 

That  was  the  truth  of  it,  that  was  what  they  really 
thought,  those  little  hypocrites  who  came  and  kissed  her 
so  obediently  every  morning  and  evening,  those  meek  little 
creatures  with  their  "Yes,  mamma  dear,"  "No,  dear 
mamma,"  accepting  all  her  commands  so  docilely,  re- 
turning her  kisses  so  affectionately !  All  that  was  a  show, 
a  sham,  a  device  for  deluding  her,  for  keeping  her  quiet, 
while  they  laid  their  vile  plots — none  the  less  vile  for 
being  so  idiotic — and  sent  their  love  to  "dearest  papa" 
— to  that  man,  to  Flora  Bolton's  lover — while  they  gave 
Flora  Bolton  the  means  of  mocking  and  of  triumphing 
over  her. 

She  sat  very  still  for  awhile,  but  Garrett  was  not  re- 
assured. Garrett  knew  that  the  worst  fits  of  all  took 
a  little  time  in  coming.  They  worked  themselves  up 
gradually. 


THE  HOUR  OF  WRATH  277 

"Is  that  to  your  ladyship's  satisfaction?"  asked  Garrett 
as  she  put  the  last  touches  to  her  work. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  snarled  Harriet.  "No,  don't  touch  me 
again.     Let  it  alone,  you  clumsy  fool." 

Garrett  went  and  took  up  the  evening  dress.  Harriet 
Courtland  rose  and  stood  for  a  moment  with  Sophy's  let- 
ter to  Tom  in  her  hand. 

"I'm  going  to  the  school-room  for  a  few  minutes.  Wait 
here,"  she  said  to  Garrett,  and  walked  out  of  the  room 
slowly,  taking  the  letter  with  her.  Another  slip  of  paper 
she  tore  into  shreds  as  she  went;  that  was  Mrs.  Bolton's 
comment  on  the  situation,  as  "spicy"  and  as  vulgar  as  she 
and  Miss  Pattie  Henderson  could  make  it.  Yet  Harriet 
was  not  now  thinking  of  Mrs.  Bolton. 

Garrett  stood  where  she  was  for  a  moment,  then  stole 
cautiously  after  her  mistress.  She  knew  the  signs,  and  a 
morbid  curiosity  possessed  her.  She  would  have  a  sensa- 
tional story  to  retail  downstairs,  if  she  could  manage  to 
see  or  hear  what  happened — for  beyond  a  doubt  some- 
thing had  put  her  ladyship  in  one  of  her  tantrums.  Pity 
for  the  children  struggled  with  Garrett's  seductive  antici- 
pations of  a  "scene." 

Suzette  Bligh  was  reading  a  story  aloud  in  the  school- 
room when  Harriet  marched  in.  She  held  the  letter  in  her 
hand.  The  children  could  make,  and  had  leisure  to  make, 
no  conjecture  how  the  catastrophe  had  come  about,  but  in 
a  flash  all  the  little  girls  knew  that  it  was  upon  them.  The 
letter  and  their  mother's  face  told  them.  They  sat  look- 
ing at  her  with  terrified  eyes. 

"So  you  don't  want  to  stay  here?"  she  said  sneer- 
ingly.  "You  want  to  go  to  your  dearest  papa?  And 
you  dare  to  write  that!  Who  wrote  it?  Was  it  you, 
Lucy?" 

"I — I  didn't  write  it,  mamma  dear,"  said  Lucy. 


278  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Suzette  rose  in  distress. 

"Dear  Lady  Harriet — "  she  began. 

"Hold  your  tongue.  So  you  wrote  it,  Sophy?  Yes,  I 
see  now  it's  your  writing.  Oh,  but  you  were  all  in  it,  I 
suppose?     So  you  love  your  papa?" 

Garrett  had  stolen  to  within  two  or  three  yards  of  the 
door  now,  and  it  stood  half  open.  She  could  hear  all  and 
see  something  of  what  happened. 

"So  you  love  your  papa?" 

Sophy  had  most  courage.  Desperate  courage  came  to 
her  now. 

"Yes,  we  do." 

"And  you  want  to  go  to  him?" 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"And  you  don't  love  me?  You  don't  want  to  stay  with 
me?" 

Sophy  glanced  for  a  moment  at  her  sisters. 

"Papa's  so  kind  to  us,"  she  said. 

"And  I'm  not  kind?"  asked  Harriet  with  a  sneering 
laugh.  "When  you're  older,  my  dears,  you'll  thank  me 
for  having  been  kind — really  kind.  It's  really  kind  to 
teach  you  not  to  play  these  tricks — these  mean  disgraceful 
little  tricks." 

All  the  children  rose  slowly  and  shrank  back.  They 
tried  to  get  behind  Suzette  Bligh.  Harriet  laughed  again 
when  she  saw  the  manoeuvre. 

"You  needn't  stay,  Suzette,"  she  said.  "I  know  how  to 
manage  my  own  children." 

Suzette  was  very  white,  and  was  trembling  all  over;  it 
seemed  as  if  her  legs  would  hardly  support  her. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"It's  no  business  of  yours.  They  know  very  well.  Leave 
me  alone  with  them." 

It  was  a  terrible  moment  for  timid  Suzette.     But  love 


THE  HOUR  OF  WRATH  279 

of  the  children  had  laid  hold  of  her  heart  and  gave  her 
strength. 

"I  can't  go,  Lady  Harriet,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
can't  leave  you  alone  with  them — not  now." 

"Not  now?"  cried  Harriet  fiercely. 

"You're — you're  not  calm  now.    You're  not  fit " 

"You'd  stand  between  me  and  my  own  children?" 

"Dear  Lady  Harriet,  I — I  can't  go  away  now."  For 
she  remembered  so  vividly  all  that  the  children's  reminis- 
cences, their  nods  and  nudges,  had  hinted  to  her;  she  real- 
ised all  the  things  which  they  had  not  told  her;  and  she 
would  not  leave  them  now. 

Her  resistance  set  the  crown  to  Harriet  Courtland's  rage. 
After  an  instant's  pause  she  gave  a  half  articulate  cry  of 
anger,  and  rushed  forward.  Suzette  tried  to  gather  the 
children  behind  her,  and  to  thrust  the  angry  woman  away. 
But  Harriet  caught  Sophy  by  the  arm  and  lifted  her  mid- 
way in  the  air.  Garrett  came  right  up  to  the  door  and 
peeped  through. 

"So  you  love  papa  and  not  me?" 

Sophy  turned  her  pale  terrified  little  face  up  to  her 
mother's.  The  worst  had  happened,  and  the  truth  came 
out. 

"No,  we — we  hate  you.  You're  cruel  to  us;  we  hate 
you,  and  we  love  papa." 

Harriet's  grip  tightened  on  the  child's  arms — Sophy's 
very  audacity  kept  her  still  for  a  moment.  But  at  the  next 
she  lifted  her  higher  in  the  air.  Suzette  sprang  forward 
with  a  cry,  and  Garrett  dashed  into  the  room,  shrieking, 
"Don't,  don't,  my  lady!" 

They  were  too  late.  The  child  was  flung  violently  down ; 
her  head  struck  the  iron  fender;  she  rolled  over  and  lay 
quite  still,  bleeding  from  the  forehead.  Suzette  and  Gar- 
rett caught  Harriet  Courtland  by  the  arms.  A  low  fright- 
ened weeping  came  from  the  other  two  little  girls. 


280  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Harriet  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  grasp  of  the  two 
women  who  sought  to  restrain  her  and  would  have  thrown 
themselves  upon  her  had  she  tried  to  move.  But  restraint 
was  no  more  necessary.  Sophy  had  ransomed  her  sisters, 
and  lay  so  quiet,  bleeding  from  the  head.  In  a  loud  voice 
Harriet  Courtland  cried,  "Have  I  killed  her?  Oh,  my 
God!"  and  herself  broke  into  a  tempest  of  hysterical  sob- 
bing. She  fell  back  into  Garrett's  arms,  shuddering,  weep- 
ing, now  utterly  collapsed.  Suzette  went  and  knelt  by 
Sophy. 

"No,  she's  not  dead,  but  it's  no  fault  of  yours,"  she  said. 

Harriet  wrenched  free  from  Garrett  and  flung  herself 
on  her  knees  by  the  table,  stretching  her  arms  across  it  and 
beating  her  forehead  on  the  wood.  The  two  children 
looked  at  her,  wondering  and  appalled. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

AN    UNCOMPROMISING    EXPRESSION 

ON  the  morrow  of  her  attempted  flight  and  enforced 
return  a  leaden  heaviness  had  clogged  Sibylla's 
brain  and  limbs.  Her  body  was  quick  to  re- 
cover; her  thoughts  were  for  long  drowsy  and  numb.  She 
seemed  to  have  died  to  an  old  life  without  finding  a  new 
one.  Blake  was  to  her  as  a  dead  friend;  she  would  see  and 
hear  of  him  no  more;  she  harboured  no  idea  of  meeting 
him  again.  The  bonds  between  them  were  finally  rent. 
This  attitude  toward  him  saved  his  character  from  criti- 
cism and  his  weakness  from  too  close  an  examination,  while 
it  left  her  free  to  brood,  in  the  security  of  despair,  on  all 
that  she  had  thought  to  find  in  him  and  on  the  desolation 
his  loss  had  made.  The  instinctive  love  for  her  child, 
which  had  asserted  itself  while  her  intellect  was  dormant, 
could  not  prevail  against  the  sullen  preoccupation  of  re- 
awaking  thoughts,  or,  if  it  could  penetrate  into  them,  came 
no  more  fresh  and  pure,  but  tainted  with  the  sorrow  and 
the  anger  which  circled  round  that  innocent  head.  She  was 
tender,  but  in  pity,  not  in  pride;  she  loved,  but  without  joy. 
The  shadows  hung  so  dark  about  the  child's  cot.  They 
still  hid  from  her  eyes  the  sin  of  her  own  desertion,  and 
hindered  the  remorse  which  might  best  lead  her  back  to 
love  unalloyed.  Still  she  arraigned  not  herself  but  only 
Grantley  and  the  inevitable.  Grantley  was  the  inevitable; 
there  stood  the  truth  of  it;  she  bowed  her  head  to  the 
knowledge,  but  did  not  incline  her  heart  to  the  lesson  it 
had  to  teach. 

281 


282  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Yet  the  knowledge  counted ;  she  looked  on  Grantley  with 
different  eyes.  The  revelation  of  himself,  wrung  from  him 
by  overpowering  necessity,  did  its  work.  The  resolve  he 
had  then  announced,  presumptuous  beyond  the  right  of 
mortal  man,  less  than  human  in  its  cruelty,  almost  more 
than  human  in  its  audacity  of  successful  revolt  against  des- 
tiny, might  leave  him  hateful  still,  but  showed  him  not  neg- 
ligible. He  could  not  be  put  on  one  side,  discarded,  elimi- 
nated from  her  life.  He  was  too  big  for  that.  Against  her 
will  he  attracted  her  attention  and  constrained  her  interest. 
The  thought  of  what  lay  beneath  his  suave  demeanour 
sometimes  appalled,  sometimes  amused,  and  always  fasci- 
nated her  now.  She  saw  that  her  old  conception  had  erred ; 
it  had  been  too  negative  in  character;  what  he  could  not  do 
or  be  or  give  had  seemed  the  whole  of  the  matter  to  her. 
In  the  light  of  the  revelation  this  was  wrong.  The  positive 
— a  very  considerable  positive — must  be  taken  into  account. 
The  pride  she  had  loathed  was  not  a  barren  self-conceit,  nor 
merely  a  sterile  self-engrossment.  It  had  issue  in  an  as- 
surance almost  supernatural  and  a  courage  above  morality. 
Sibylla's  first  relief  came  in  the  reflection  that,  though  she 
might  have  married  a  monster,  at  least  she  had  not  given 
herself  to  a  stick  or  a  stone ;  she  was  clear  as  to  her  prefer- 
ence when  the  choice  was  reduced  to  that  alternative. 

His  behaviour  appealed  to  her  humour  too — that  hu- 
mour which  could  not  save  her  from  running  away  with 
Blake  under  the  spell  of  her  ideas,  but  would  certainly 
have  made  her  want  to  run  away  from  him  when  the  glam- 
our of  the  ideas  had  worn  off.  The  old  perfection  of  man- 
ner found  a  new  ornament  in  his  easy  ignoring  of  the  whole 
affair.  He  referred  to  it  once  only,  then  indirectly  and 
because  he  had  a  reason.  He  suggested  apologetically  that 
it  would  be  well  for  them  to  exchange  remarks  more  freely 
when  the  servants  were  waiting  on  them  at  meals. 


AN   UNCOMPROMISING   EXPRESSION        283 

"It  will  prevent  comment  on  recent  events,"  he  added, 
as  though  that  were  his  only  reason. 

Sibylla  was  deceived  at  first,  but  presently  detected  an- 
other and  more  important  motive.  The  suggestion  marked 
the  beginning  of  a  new  campaign  on  which  his  inexhausti- 
ble perseverance  engaged.  He  understood  that  his  wife 
accused  him  of  not  taking  her  into  his  confidence,  and  of 
not  making  her  a  partner  in  his  life.  He  was  no  more 
minded  than  before  that  she  should  have  even  plausible 
grounds  for  complaint.  Starting,  then,  from  general  top- 
ics and  subjects  arising  out  of  the  journals  of  the  day,  he 
slid  placidly  and  dexterously  into  frequent  discussions  of 
his  own  plans  and  doings,  his  business,  his  work  on  the 
County  Council,  his  Parliamentary  ambitions,  his  schemes 
for  improving  the  property  at  Milldean.  Sibylla  acknowl- 
edged the  cleverness  of  these  tactics  with  a  rueful  smile. 
She  had  claimed  to  share  his  life;  yet  most  of  these  topics 
happened  to  seem  to  her  rather  tedious.  But  she  was  de- 
barred from  saying  that  to  Grantley;  his  retort  was  so 
obvious.  She  was  often  bored,  but  she  was  amused  that 
boredom  should  be  the  first  result  of  the  new  method. 

"I  hope  all  this  interests  you?"  Grantley  would  inquire 
politely. 

"Of  course,  since  it  concerns  you,"  equal  politeness 
obliged  her  to  reply — and  not  politeness  only.  She  had 
to  be  interested;  it  had  been  her  theory  that  she  would  be, 
her  grievance  that  she  had  been  denied  the  opportunity  of 
being.  Nor  could  she  make  out  whether  Grantley  had  any 
inkling  of  her  suppressed  indifference  to  the  County  Coun- 
cil and  so  forth.  Was  he  exercising  his  humour  too?  She 
could  not  tell,  but  curiosity  and  amusement  tempered  the 
coldness  of  her  courtesy.  They  got  on  really  very  well  at 
dinner,  and  especially  while  the  servants  were  in  the  room; 
there  was  sometimes  an  awkward  pause  just  after  they  were 


284  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

left  alone.  But  on  the  whole  the  trifling  daily  intercourse 
went  better  than  before  Sibylla's  flight — went  indeed  fair- 
ly well,  as  it  can  generally  be  made  to  if  people  are  well- 
bred  and  moderately  humorous. 

The  great  quarrel  remained  untouched,  no  span  bridged 
the  great  chasm.  Grantley  might  consent  to  talk  about  his 
County  Council;  that  was  merely  a  polite  concession,  in- 
volving no  admission  of  guilt,  and  acknowledging  no  such 
wrong  to  his  wife  as  could  for  a  moment  justify  her  action. 
When  it  came  to  deeper  matters,  he  was  afflicted  with  a 
shame  and  helplessness  which  seemed  to  paralyse  him.  To 
gloss  over  the  absence  of  love,  or  even  of  friendship,  was 
a  task  at  which  he  was  apt  and  tactful;  to  gain  it  back  was 
work  of  the  heart — and  here  he  was  as  yet  at  a  standstill. 
His  instinct  had  told  him  to  work  through  the  child.  But 
if  he  caressed  the  child  in  order  to  conciliate  Sibylla,  he 
would  do  a  mean  thing,  and  yet  not  succeed  in  his  decep- 
tion; he  would  admit  a  previous  fault  and  gain  no  absolu- 
tion by  a  calculated  and  interested  confession.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  it.  His  manner  to  the  child  was  as 
carelessly  kind  as  ever;  and  when  Sibylla  was  there  the 
carelessness  was  almost  more  apparent  than  the  kindness. 
Grantley's  nature  was  against  him ;  to  do  violence  to  it  was 
a  struggle.  Ever  ready  to  be  kind,  he  disliked  to  show 
emotion.  He  felt  it  was  being  false  to  himself,  being  a 
sham  and  a  hypocrite.  To  be  gushing  was  abhorrent  to 
him;  to  pretend  to  gush  surely  touched  a  more  profound 
depth?  His  efforts  achieved  no  success;  and  he  did  not 
let  Sibylla  perceive  even  the  efforts  themselves.  For  once 
his  will,  strong  as  it  was,  and  his  clear  perception  were  both 
powerless  before  his  temper  and  the  instincts  of  his  nature. 
The  result  was  a  deadlock.     Matters  could  not  move. 

Such  was  the  juncture  of  affairs  when  Christine  Fanshaw 
came  to  Milldean.     Perhaps  only  her  resolve  to  escape 


AN  UNCOMPROMISING  EXPRESSION  285 
from  the  atmosphere  of  disgrace  at  home  could  have 
brought  her;  for  she  came  in  some  trepidation,  rather  sur- 
prised that  Sibylla  had  welcomed  her,  wondering  whether 
the  welcome  was  of  Sibylla's  own  free  will.  Had  not  she 
betrayed  Sibylla  ?  Was  not  she  responsible  for  the  frustra- 
tion of  the  great  plan  ?  Yet  an  acute  curiosity  mingled  with 
and  almost  overpowered  her  apprehensions.  And  she  was 
prepared  to  defend  herself.  The  rumours  about  Walter 
Blake  would  be  a  weapon,  if  she  needed  one — a  weapon 
effective,  if  cruel.  As  regards  her  own  treachery,  she  made 
haste  to  throw  herself  on  Sibylla's  mercy. 

"Of  course  you  must  have  known  it  was  through  me?" 
she  ended. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  that,  of  course." 

"Here's  your  letter — the  one  you  sent  me  to  hand  on  to 
Grantley.     He  wired  me  not  to  send  it." 

"Oh,  I  thought  he'd  read  it,"  said  Sibylla  thoughtfully. 

She  took  it  and  put  it  in  her  pocket.  Christine  looked 
at  her  with  a  smile. 

"And  yet  you  ask  me  to  stay!"  she  remarked. 

Sibylla  smiled  mockingly. 

"Since  this  household  owes  all  its  happiness  to  you,  it's 
only  fair  that  you  should  come  and  look  on  at  it." 

"That's  not  at  all  a  comfortable  thing  to  say,  Sibylla." 

"No,  it  isn't,  and  it  departs  from  our  principle,  which  is 
to  say  nothing." 

"That's  not  always  very  comfortable  either." 

Christine  was  giving  a  thought  to  her  own  affairs  here. 

"And  we  won't  say  anything  more  about  what  you  did," 
Sibylla  went  on.  "We  won't  discuss  whether  you  were 
right,  or  whether  I'm  grateful,  or  anything  of  that  sort." 

"You  ought  to  be." 

"Or  even  whether  I  ought  to  be — though,  of  course, 
you'd  want  to  think  that," 


286  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Christine  was  disappointed.  In  her  heart  she  had  rather 
hoped  to  be  put  on  her  defence  just  enough  to  entitle  her 
to  use  her  weapon  and  to  tell  some  of  the  truth  about  Wal- 
ter Blake.     Sibylla's  attitude  gave  her  no  excuse. 

Though  she  would  say  nothing  more  about  what  Chris- 
tine had  done,  Sibylla  was  easily  persuaded  to  break  the 
principle  of  silence  about  the  main  affair.  Christine's  curi- 
osity lost  the  zest  of  difficult  satisfaction ;  she  had  the  whole 
history  for  the  asking.  She  heard  it,  marvelling  at  the 
want  of  reticence  her  friend  displayed,  seeking  how  to 
reconcile  this  seeming  immodesty  with  the  rest  of  her  im- 
pression of  Sibylla.  She  recollected  being  very  shy  and 
ashamed  (in  the  midst  of  her  exultation)  when  she  had 
let  Harriet  Courtland  worm  out  the  secret  of  her  love  for 
Caylesham.  Sibylla  was  not  ashamed — she  was  candid. 
Sometimes  she  was  excited,  sometimes  she  played  the  judge ; 
but  she  was  never  abashed.  Christine's  wits  sought  hard 
for  an  explanation  of  this.  Suddenly  it  came  to  her  as  she 
gazed  on  Sibylla's  pure  face  and  far-away  eyes. 

"My  dear,  you  were  never  in  love  with  him!"  she  cried. 

If  she  hoped  to  surprise,  or  even  to  win  a  compliment  on 
her  penetration,  she  was  utterly  deceived. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Sibylla.  "In  the  way  you  mean  I've 
never  been  in  love  with  anybody  except  Grantley." 

"Then  why  did  you?  Oh,  tell  me  about  it!"  Christine 
implored. 

"He  appealed  to  my  better  feelings,"  Sibylla  smiled  back 
to  her,  mocking  again.  "I'd  give  the  world  that  we  hadn't 
been  stopped !    No,  I  can't  say  that,  because " 

"Well?" 

"I  think  Grantley  would  have  done  what  he  said." 

Christine  was  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  rest  igno- 
rant of  what  Grantley  had  said.  Sibylla  was  again  disap- 
pointingly ready  to  tell  the  whole  thing  without  any  pres- 
sure worth  mentioning. 


AN  UNCOMPROMISING  EXPRESSION         287 

"And  you  really  believe  he  would  have?"  Christine  half- 
whispered  when  she  had  heard  the  story. 

"If  I  didn't  believe  it  with  my  whole  heart,  I  shouldn't 
be  here.  I  should  be — well,  somewhere — with  Walter 
Blake." 

"Thank  God  you  are  not!" 

"Why  do  you  say  that?    The  proprieties,  Christine?" 

"Oh,  only  partly;  but  don't  you  think  lightly  of  them, 
all  the  same !  And  the  rest  of  the  reasons  don't  matter." 
Christine  got  up  and  walked  across  the  room  and  back 
again,  before  she  came  to  a  stand  opposite  Sibylla.  "I  call 
that  a  man  worth  being  in  love  with,"  she  said. 

"Walter?" 

"Heavens,  no!  Grantley  Imason.  Oh,  I  know  he's 
your  husband !     But  still " 

Sibylla  broke  into  a  gentle  laugh. 

"It  has  the  attraction  of  the  horrible,"  she  admitted. 
"He'd  have  done  it,  you  know." 

"It's  mediaeval,"  said  Christine  fondly.  "And  you  were 
going  away  with  Walter  Blake!"  She  drew  her  little  fig- 
ure up  straight.  "Sibylla,  you're  no  woman  if  you  don't 
manage  a  man  like  that  in  the  end.  He's  worth  it,  you 
know." 

"You  mean,  if  I  don't  let  him  manage  me?"  Sibylla 
was  a  little  contemptuous.  "I  don't  care  about  tyranny, 
even  tempered  by  epigrams,"  she  explained. 

"Well,  not  when  you  only  do  the  epigrams,"  smiled 
Christine. 

"That's  not  true.     I  only  ask  a  real  partnership." 

"You  must  begin  by  contributing  all  you  have." 

"I  did.     But  Grantley " 

"Paid  a  composition?  Oh  yes,  my  dear;  men  do. 
That's  as  old  as  Byron  anyhow."  She  came  suddenly  to 
Sibylla  and  kissed  her.  "And  you'd  be  adorable,  properly 
deluded." 


288  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"You  shan't  put  it  like  that,  Christine." 

"Yes,  I  will — and  I  know  he  loves  you." 

"He  can't  love  anything — not  really." 

"I  shall  watch  him.  Oh,  my  dear,  what  a  comfort  to 
watch  anybody  besides  John!  Oh  yes,  I  suppose  you'd 
better  have  my  story  too.  You've  had  most  of  it  before — 
without  the  name.  But  look  away.  I've  no  theories,  you 
know — and — well,  I  was  in  love." 

She  laughed  a  little,  blushing  red.  But  her  composure 
returned  when  she  had  finished  her  confession. 

"And  now  what  do  we  think  of  one  another?"  she  asked, 
with  her  usual  satirical  little  smile.  "You  don't  know? 
Oh,  yes !  You  think  me  rather  wicked,  and  I  think  you 
very  silly:  that's  about  what  it  comes  to." 

"I  suppose  that  is  about  it,"  Sibylla  laughed  reluctantly. 

"But  I've  repented,  and  you're  only  going  to  repent." 

"Never!" 

"Yes,  you  are !  I  take  no  credit  for  having  done  it  first. 
It's  much  easier  to  repent  of  wickedness  than  of  nonsense. 
The  wickedness  is  much  pleasanter  at  the  time,  and  so  seems 
much  worse  afterward." 

"And  now  you're  in  love  with  John?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!"  She  pulled  herself  up.  "Well, 
I  don't  know.  If  I'm  in  love  now,  it's  not  what  I  used  to 
mean  by  it.  One  gets  to  use  words  so  differently  as  time 
goes  on." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  learn  that." 

Destiny  assumed  Christine's  small  neat  features  for  a 
moment  in  order  to  answer  sternly: 

"But  you  must!" 

It  was  the  worst  way  of  dealing  with  Sibylla. 

"I  won't!"  she  answered  in  overt  rebellion,  her  cheeks 
flushing  now  as  her  confession  had  not  availed  to  make  it 
flush. 


AN  UNCOMPROMISING  EXPRESSION  289 
Christine  did  not  fail  to  perceive  the  comic  element  in 
the  case — strong  enough,  at  all  events,  to  serve  as  a  relief 
to  conversation,  almost  piquant  when  Grantley  conscien- 
tiously related  all  manner  of  uninteresting  things  in  order 
that  Sibylla  might  be  at  liberty  to  take  an  interest  in  them. 
But  this  aspect  did  not  carry  matters  very  far  or  afford 
much  real  consolation.  Substantially  no  progress  was 
made.  The  failure  endured,  and  seemed  to  Christine  as 
complete  as  the  devastation  wrought  in  her  own  life.  Nay, 
here  there  was  an  aggravation.  In  her  home — she  almost 
smiled  to  use  the  word  now — there  was  no  child.  Here 
there  was  the  boy.  Her  mind  flew  forward  to  the  time 
when  he  would  wonderingly  surmise,  painfully  guess,  at 
last  grow  into  knowledge. 

And  already  the  mind  stirred  in  little  Frank.  His  in- 
telligence grew,  his  affection  blossomed  as  the  first  buds 
of  a  flower.  He  was  no  more  merely  a  passive  object  of 
love  and  care.  He  began  to  know  more  than  that  he  was 
nursed  and  fed,  more  than  that  his  right  was  to  these  min- 
istrations. The  idea  of  the  reason  dawned  in  him.  He 
stretched  forth  his  hand  no  longer  for  bounty  only,  but 
for  the  inspirer  of  bounty — for  love.  Strung  to  abnormal 
sensitiveness,  Christine  deluded  herself  with  the  fancy  that 
already  he  felt  the  shadow  over  the  house,  that  his  young 
soul  was  already  chilled  by  the  clouds  of  anger,  and  vainly 
cried  for  the  sunshine  of  sympathy.  If  she  did  not  truly 
see,  yet  she  foresaw  truly.  Seeing  and  foreseeing  thus, 
she  asked  where  was  the  hope.  And  on  this,  with  a  bound, 
her  thoughts  went  back  to  her  own  sorrow,  and  back  to 
poor  lonely  old  John  in  London,  all  by  himself,  with 
nobody  to  talk  to,  nobody  to  congratulate  him  on  the  suc- 
cess of  his  business,  nobody  to  open  his  heart  to,  alone  with 
his  grievance  against  her,  alone  with  the  thought  that, 
notwithstanding  his  grievance,  he  had  taken  Frank  Cayle- 


29o  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

sham's  money,  and  grew  prosperous  again  by  the  aid  of  it. 
When  Christine  had  been  at  Milldean  a  fortnight  or  so, 
business  carried  Grantley  to  town.  The  change  his  depar- 
ture made  was  instantaneous  and  striking.  A  weight  was 
off  the  house,  the  clouds  dispersed.  Sibylla  was  full  of 
gaiety,  and  in  that  mood  she  could  make  all  about  her 
share  her  mirth.  Above  all,  her  devotion  to  Frank  was 
given  full  rein.  The  child  was  always  with  her,  and  she 
knew  no  happiness  save  in  evoking  and  responding  to  his 
love.  She  was  now  open  and  ostentatious  about  it,  fear- 
ing no  frigid  glances  and  no  implied  criticism  of  her  fond 
folly.  Christine  might  well  have  found  new  ground  for 
despair,  so  plainly  did  Sibylla  display  to  her  the  blighting 
influence  of  Grantley's  presence.  He  it  was  who  froze  up 
l0Ve — so  Sibylla  declared  with  an  impetuous  aggressive 
openness.  But  Christine  would  not  despair.  A  whole- 
some anger  rose  in  her  heart  and  forbade  despair.  Her 
manner  took  on  a  coldness  exceeding  Grantley's  indiffer- 
ence. She  would  not  be  a  sharer  in  the  games,  a  partner 
in  the  merriment,  a  sympathiser  in  the  love.  Sibylla  was 
not  slow  to  see  how  she  stood  off  and  drew  herself  away. 
Quickly  she  sought  for  reasons.  Was  it  that  Christine 
would  not  join  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  league  against 
Grantley?  Or  was  there  another  reason?  She  had  told 
Christine  how  it  was  through  Walter  Blake's  horror  and 
not  through  her  scruples  that  little  Frank  had  not  been 
left  to  his  fate.  Did  her  love  then  seem  hypocrisy?  That 
was  not  true — though  it  might  be  true  that  remorse  now 
had  a  share  in  it.  The  more  the  child  grew  to  life,  the 
more  horrible  became  the  thought  that  he  might  have 
died.  After  a  day  or  two  of  smouldering  protest,  she 
broke  out  on  Christine. 

"You  think  I've  no  right  to  love  him,"  she  asked,  "after 
what  I  was  ready  to  do?     Is  that  what  you  think?     Oh, 


AN  UNCOMPROMISING  EXPRESSION  291 
speak  out  plainly!  I  see  you've  got  something  against 
me." 

Christine  was  cold  and  composed.  Never  had  her  deli- 
cately critical  manner  been  more  pronounced. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  you  repent,"  she  observed  medita- 
tively; "and  I  hope  you  thank  heaven  that  man  was  what 
he  turned  out  to  be." 

"Well,  call  it  repentance,  then.  I  suppose  I've  a  right 
to  repent?  You  can't  understand  how  I  really  feel.  But 
if  it  is  repentance,  why  need  you  discourage  it?" 

"I  don't  discourage  repentance,  and  I'm  glad  you're  be- 
ginning to  see  that  you  ought  to  repent.  But  it's  not  that 
I'm  thinking  of." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  then?"  cried  Sibylla  in  un- 
restrained impatience. 

"You're  prepared  for  an  open  quarrel?" 

"Oh,  I  shan't  quarrel  with  you !"  Her  smile  was  rather 
disdainful. 

"No,  you  won't  quarrel  with  me;  I'm  not  of  enough 
importance  to  you!  I'm  very  glad  I'm  not,  you  know. 
Being  important  to  you  doesn't  seem  to  be  consistent  with 
being  an  independent  creature." 

Sibylla  glanced  at  her  in  arrested  attention. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  asked  in  low  quick 
tones.  The  charge  was  so  strangely  like  that  which  she 
was  for  ever  formulating  against  Grantley.  Now  Chris- 
tine levelled  it  at  her. 

"You  call  Grantley  selfish,"  Christine  went  on. 
"You're  just  as  bad  yourself — yes,  worse.  He  is  trying  to 
be  different,  I  believe.  Oh,  I  admit  the  poor  man  doesn't 
do  it  very  well:  he  gets  very  little  encouragement!  But 
are  you  trying?  No!  You're  quite  content  with  your- 
self. You've  done  no  wrong —  Well,  perhaps  it  was  a 
little  questionable  to  be  ready  to  leave  Frank  to  die !     But 


292  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

even  that  would  be  all  right  if  only  I  could  understand  it !" 

"You'd  better  go  on  now,"  said  Sibylla  quietly. 

"Yes,  I  will  go  on;  I  am  going  on.  You  were  ready 
to  leave  the  child  to  die  sooner  than  go  on  living  as  you'd 
been  living?  Isn't  that  how  you  put  it?  You  were  willing 
to  give  his  life  to  prevent  that?  Well,  are  you  willing  to 
give  any  of  your  own  life,  any  of  your  way  of  thinking, 
any  of  what  you  call  your  nature,  or  your  temperament,  or 
what  not?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  You  can  love  Frank  when 
there's  no  danger  of  Grantley's  thinking  it  may  mean  that 
you  could  forgive  him !  As  soon  as  there's  any  danger  of 
that,  you  draw  back.  You  use  the  unhappy  child  as  a 
shield  between  Grantley  and  yourself,  as  a  weapon  against 
Grantley.  Yes,  you  do,  Sibylla.  Whenever  you're  in- 
clined to  relent  toward  Grantley,  you  go  and  sit  by  that 
child's  cot  and  use  your  love  for  him  to  fan  your  hatred 
against  Grantley.     Isn't  that  true?" 

Sibylla  sat  silent,  with  attentive  frightened  eyes.  This 
was  a  new  picture — was  it  a  true  one?  One  feature  of  it 
at  least  struck  home  with  a  terribly  true-seeming  likeness 
of  her  own  mind.  She  used  her  love  for  her  child  to  fan 
her  hatred  against  Grantley! 

"You  complain,"  Christine  went  on  in  calm  relentless- 
ness,  "of  what  Grantley  is  to  the  child.  That's  a  sham 
most  of  the  time.  You're  thinking  of  what  he  is  to  you. 
And  even  where  it's  true,  don't  you  do  all  you  can  to  make 
him  feel  as  he  does?  How  is  he  to  love  what  you  make 
the  stalking-horse  of  your  grievances?"  She  turned  on 
Sibylla  scornfully,  almost  fiercely  now.  "Your  husband, 
your  son,  the  whole  world,  aren't  made  for  your  emotions 
to  go  sprawling  over,  Sibylla !  You  must  have  caught 
that  idea  from  young  Blake,  I  think." 

She  walked  off  to  the  window  and  stood  there,  looking 
out.     No  sound  came  from  Sibylla.     Presently  Christine 


AN  UNCOMPROMISING  EXPRESSION  293 
looked  round  rather  nervously.  She  had  gone  a  little  too 
far  perhaps!  That  phrase  about  emotions  "sprawling" 
was — well,  decidedly  uncompromising.  She  met  Sibylla's 
eyes.  They  wore  a  haunted  look — as  though  some  peril 
walled  her  in  and  she  found  no  way  of  escape.  Her  voice 
trembled  as  she  faltered: 

"Is  that  what  you  really  think  of  me,  Christine?" 

"A  bruised  reed  thou  shalt  not  break."  Christine  had 
the  wisdom  to  remember  that.  Remorse  must  fall  short 
of  despair,  self-knowledge  of  self-hatred,  or  there  remains 
no  possibility  of  a  rebound  to  hope  and  effort.  Christine 
came  across  to  her  friend  with  hands  outstretched. 

"No,  no,  dear,"  she  said,  "not  you — not  yourself!  But 
this  mood  of  yours,  the  way  you're  going  on.  And,  true 
or  false,  isn't  it  what  you  must  make  Grantley  think?" 

Sibylla  moved  her  hands  in  a  restless  gesture,  protesting 
against  the  picture  of  herself — even  thus  softened — deny- 
ing its  truth,  fascinated  by  it. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  murmured.  "I  don't  know.  Chris- 
tine, it's  a  horrible  idea!" 

Christine  fell  on  her  knees  beside  her. 

"If  only  you  hadn't  been  so  absurdly  in  love  with  him, 
my  dear!"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

ASPIRATIONS   AND    COMMON-SENSE 

RUMOUR  spoke  truly.  Young  Walter  Blake  was 
back  in  town  with  an  entirely  new  crop  of  aspira- 
tions maturing  in  the  ready  soil  of  his  mind.  The 
first  crop  had  not  proved  fortunate.  It  had  brought  him 
into  a  position  most  disagreeable  and  humiliating  to  reflect 
upon,  and  into  struggles  for  which  he  felt  himself  little  fit. 
He  had  been  given  time  to  meditate  and  to  cool — to  cool 
even  to  shuddering  when  he  recalled  that  night  in  the 
Sailors'  Rest,  and  pictured  the  tragedy  for  which  he  had 
so  nearly  become  responsible.  His  old  desires  waning,  his 
aspirations  were  transfigured  at  the  suggestion  of  a  new 
attraction.  He  had  been  on  the  wrong  tack — that  was  cer- 
tain. Again  virtue  seemed  to  triumph  in  this  admission. 
He  no  longer  desired  to  be  made  good — it  was  (as  he  had 
conceived  and  attempted  it)  such  a  stormy  and  soul-shak- 
ing process.  Now  he  desired  to  be  kept  good.  He  did 
not  now  want  a  guiding  star  which  he  was  to  follow 
through  every  peril,  over  threatening  waves  and  through 
the  trough  of  an  angry  sea.  The  night  at  the  Sailors' 
Rest  disposed  of  that  metaphor  and  that  ideal.  Now  he 
wanted  an  anchor  by -whose  help  he  might  ride  out  the 
storm,  or  a  harbour  whose  placid  bosom  should  support 
his  gently  swaying  barque.  Strength,  constancy,  and 
common-sense  supplanted  imagination,  ardour,  and  self- 
devotion  as  the  requisites  his  life  demanded. 

Again  Caylesham  showed  tact.     He  would  not  ask  the 
lady's  name.     But  when  Blake  next  dined  with  him,  he  en- 

294 


ASPIRATIONS  295 

joyed  the  metamorphosis,  and  silently  congratulated  Grant- 
ley  Imason. 

"So  it's  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  and  everything 
quite  regular  this  time,  is  it?"  he  asked  with  an  indulgent 
humour.  "Well,  I  fancy  you're  best  suited  to  that.  Only 
take  care!" 

"You  may  be  sure  that  the  woman  I  marry  will  be " 

Blake  began. 

"Perfection?  Oh,  of  course!  That's  universal.  But 
it's  not  enough."  He  lay  back  comfortably  in  his  armchair, 
enjoying  his  cigar.  "Not  enough,  my  boy !  I  may  have 
two  horses,  and  you  may  have  two  horses,  and  each  of  my 
horses  may  be  better  than  either  of  your  horses;  but  when 
we  come  to  driving  them,  you  may  have  the  better  pair. 
Two  good  'uns  don't  always  make  a  good  pair."  He  grew 
quite  interested  in  his  subject — thanks,  perhaps,  to  the 
figure  in  which  he  clothed  it.  "They've  got  to  match — 
both  their  paces  and  their  ways.  They've  got  to  go  kindly 
together,  to  like  the  feel  of  one  another,  don't  you  know? 
Each  of  'em  may  be  as  good  as  you  like  single,  but  they 
may  make — by  Jove,  yes ! — the  devil  of  a  bad  pair !  It's 
double  harness  we're  talking  about,  Blake,  my  boy.  Oh, 
you  may  think  I  know  nothing  about  it,  but  I've  seen  a 
bit —  Well,  that's  not  a  thing  to  boast  about ;  but  I  have 
seen  a  bit,  you  know." 

"That's  just  what  I've  been  thinking,"  said  young  Blake 
sagaciously.  He  referred  to  Caylesham's  doctrines,  not  his 
experiences. 

"Oh,  you've  been  thinking,  have  you?"  smiled  Cayle- 
sham.    "Come  a  mucker  then,  I  suppose?" 

"I — I  miscalculated.  Well,  we  must  all  learn  by  ex- 
perience." 

"Deuced  lucky  if  we  can !" 

"There's  no  other  way,"  Blake  insisted. 


296  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"Have  I  said  there  is?"  He  looked  at  Blake  in  an 
amused  knowledge.  "Going  in  for  the  straight  thing  this 
time?" 

Half  in  pride,  half  in  shame,  Blake  answered : 

"Yes." 

"Quite  right  too !"    Caylesham  was  very  approving. 

"Well,  if  you  say  so "  began  Blake,  laughing. 

"Quite  right  for  you,  I  mean."  There  was  a  touch  of 
contempt  somewhere  in  his  tone.  "But  don't  forget  what 
I've  been  saying.  It's  double  harness,  my  boy !  Pace,  my 
boy,  and  temper,  and  the  feel — the  feel !  All  the  things  a 
fellow  never  thinks  about !" 

"Well,  you're  a  pretty  preacher  on  this  subject!" 

"I've  heard  a  lot  of  things  you  never  have.  Oh,  well, 
you  may  have  once,  perhaps."  His  glance  was  very  acute, 
and  Blake  flushed  under  it.  "You're  well  out  of  that  af- 
fair," Caylesham  went  on,  dropping  his  mask  of  ignorance. 
"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  know  how  it  happened.  I  expect  I 
can  guess." 

"What  do  you  mean?"    Blake's  voice  sounded  angry. 

"You  flunked  it— eh?" 

It  was  a  strong  thing  to  say  to  a  man  in  your  own  house. 
But  a  sudden  gust  of  impatience  had  swept  Caylesham 
away.  The  young  man  was  in  the  end  so  contemptible,  so 
incapable  of  strength,  such  a  blarney  over  his  weakness. 

"Now  don't  glare  at  me;  I'm  not  afraid.  You  tackled 
too  big  a  job,  I  fancy.  Oh,  I'm  not  asking  questions,  you 
know."  He  got  up  and  patted  Blake's  shoulder.  "Don't 
mind  me.  You're  doing  quite  right.  Hope  you  won't  find 
it  impossibly  dull!" 

Blake's  bad  temper  vanished.     He  began  to  laugh. 

"That's  right,"  said  Caylesham.  "I'm  too  old  to  con- 
vert, and  nearly  too  old  to  fight;  but  I'll  be  your  best  man, 
Walter." 

"It'll  keep  me  straight,  Caylesham." 


ASPIRATIONS  297 

"Lord  bless  you,  so  it  will!" 

He  chuckled  in  irrepressible  amusement. 

"The  other  thing's  no  go  I" 

"No  more  it  is.    It  needs No,  I'm  not  going  to  be 

immoral  any  more.  Go  ahead!  You're  made  for  double 
harness,  Walter.  Choose  her  well;  you'll  have  to  learn  her 
paces,  you  know." 

"Or  she  mine?" 

Blake  was  a  little  on  his  dignity  again. 

"Have  another  whiskey  and  soda,"  said  Caylesham,  with 
admirable  tact. 

His  advice,  meant  as  precautionary,  proved  provocative. 
Memory  worked  with  it — the  carking  memory  of  a  failure 
of  courage.  Blake  might  blarney  as  he  would  about  awak- 
ened conscience,  but  Caylesham  had  put  his  finger  on  the 
sore  spot.  Pleasure's  potentiality  of  tragedy  had  asserted 
itself.  It  had  been  supremely  disconcerting  to  discover  and 
recognise  its  existence.  Young  Blake  was  for  morality 
now — not  so  much  because  its  eyes  were  turned  upward 
as  for  the  blameless  security  of  its  embrace.  He  had  suf- 
fered such  a  scare.  He  really  wondered  how  Caylesham 
had  managed  to  stand  the  strain  of  pleasing  himself — with 
the  sudden  tragic  potentialities  of  it.  He  paid  unwilling 
homage  to  the  qualities  necessary  for  vice — for  candid 
unmasquerading  vice ;  he  knew  all  about  the  other  species. 

Yet  he  was  not  hard  on  Sibylla.  He  recognised  her 
temperament,  her  unhappy  circumstances,  and  his  own 
personal  attractions.  What  he  did  not  recognise  was  the 
impression  of  himself  which  that  night  in  the  Sailors'  Rest 
might  leave  on  her.  He  conceived  an  idea  of  his  own 
magnanimity  resting  in  her  mind — Yes,  though  such  a 
notion  could  gain  no  comfortable  footing  in  his. 

Caylesham  let  him  go  without  more  advice — though  he 
had  half  a  mind  to  tell  him  not  to  marry  a  pretty  woman. 


298  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"Oh,  well,  in  his  present  mood  he  won't;  and  it  would 
do  him  lots  of  good  if  he  did,"  the  impenitent,  clear- 
sighted, good-humoured  sinner  reflected,  with  all  the  mean- 
ing which  his  experience  could  put  into  the  words.  He 
was  of  opinion  that  for  certain  people  the  only  chance  of 
salvation  lay  in  suffering  gross  injustice.  "If  what  a  fel- 
low brings  on  himself  is  injustice,"  he  used  to  say.  He 
always  maintained  that  fellows  brought  it  on  themselves 
— an  expiring  gasp  of  conscience,  perhaps. 

Gossip  and  conjecture  had  played  so  much  with  Walter 
Blake's  name  that  Mrs.  Selford  had  at  first  been  shy  of  his 
approaches  and  chary  of  her  welcome.  "We  must  think 
of  Anna,"  she  had  said  to  her  husband.  But  thinking  of 
or  for  Anna  was  rapidly  becoming  superfluous.  The  young 
woman  took  that  department  to  herself.  Her  stylishness 
grew  marvellously,  and  imposed  a  yoke  of  admiring  sub- 
mission. It  was  an  extraordinary  change  from  the  awk- 
ward, dowdy,  suppressed  girl  to  this  excellently  appointed 
product.  The  liberty  so  tardily  conceded  was  making  up 
for  lost  time,  and  bade  fair  to  transform  itself  into  a 
tyranny.  The  parents  were  ready  subjects,  and  cast  back 
from  the  theories  of  to-day  a  delusive  light  on  the  prac- 
tices of  the  past.  They  concluded  that  they  had  always 
indulged  Anna,  and  that  the  result  was  most  satisfactory. 
Then  they  must  indulge  her  still.  So  Blake's  visits  went 
on,  and  the  welcome  became  cordial.  For  Anna  was  quite 
clear  that  she  at  least  had  nothing  against  Blake.  His  at- 
traction for  her  was  not  what  had  been  his  charm  in 
Sibylla's  eyes.  Her  impulse  was  not  to  reform ;  it  was  to 
conquer.  But  gossip  and  conjectures  as  to  his  past  life 
were  as  good  incentives  to  the  one  task  as  to  the  other.  His 
good  looks,  his  air  of  fashion,  his  comfortable  means, 
helped  the  work.  He  widened  the  horizon  of  men  for  her, 
and  made  her  out  of  conceit  with  her  first  achievements. 


ASPIRATIONS  299 

She  was  content  that  Jeremy  should  disappear  from  her 
court;  she  became  contemptuously  impatient  of  Alec 
Turner's  suit.     She  was  fastidious  and  worldly-wise. 

Again  Mrs.  Selford  rejoiced.  She  had  been  in  some 
consternation  over  Alec  Turner's  now  obvious  attachment, 
coming  just  at  the  time  when  Anna  had  established  the 
right  to  please  herself.  Suppose  her  first  use  of  liberty  had 
been  to  throw  herself  away?  For  to  what  end  be  stylish 
if  you  are  going  to  marry  on  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 
year?  But  Anna  was  quite  safe — strangely  safe,  Mrs.  Sel- 
ford thought  in  her  heart,  though  she  rebuked  the  wonder. 
Almost  unkindly  safe,  she  thought  sometimes,  as  she  strove 
to  soften  the  blows  which  fell  on  poor  Alec — since,  so  soon 
as  he  ceased  to  be  dangerous,  he  became  an  object  of  com- 
passion. 

uAnna  is  so  sensible,"  she  said  to  Selford.  "She's  quite 
free  from  the  silliness  that  girls  so  often  show;"  but  she 
sighed  just  a  little  as  she  spoke. 

"She'd  make  a  good  wife  for  any  man,"  declared  Sel- 
ford proudly — a  general  declaration  in  flat  contradiction 
to  Caylesham's  theories  about  double  harness. 

Anna  paid  no  heed  to  opinions  or  comments.  She  went 
about  her  business  and  managed  it  with  instinctive  skill.  It 
sometimes  puzzled  poor  Alec  Turner  to  think  why  his  pres- 
ence was  so  often  requested,  when  his  arrival  evoked  so  little 
enthusiasm.  He  did  not  realise  the  part  he  played  in 
Anna's  scheme,  nor  how  his  visits  were  to  appear  to  Walter 
Blake.  Anna's  generalship  had  thought  all  this  out.  The 
exhibition  of  Alec  was  a  subsidiary  move  in  the  great  strat- 
egic conception  of  capturing  Walter  Blake  on  the  rebound 
from  Sibylla. 

But  the  pawn  was  not  docile,  and  objected  violently  so 
soon  as  its  function  began  to  be  apparent.  Anna  precipi- 
tated what  she  did  not  desire — a  passionate  avowal  in  which 


3oo  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

the  theme  of  her  own  gifts  and  fascination  was  intermingled 
with  the  ideal  of  influencing  the  trend  of  public  opinion 
from  a  modest  home  and  on  a  modest  income.  She  was 
told  that  she  could  be  removed  from  the  vanities  of  life 
and  be  her  true,  her  highest  self.  When  she  showed  no 
inclination  to  accept  the  opportunity  thus  indicated,  Alec 
passed  through  incredulity  to  anger.  Had  he  cast  his  pearls 
before — well,  at  inappreciative  feet?  At  this  tone  Anna 
became  excusably  huffy;  to  refuse  a  young  man  is  not  to 
deny  all  the  higher  moral  obligations.  Besides  Alec  an- 
noyed her  very  much  by  assuming  persistently  that  the  dic- 
tates of  her  heart  called  her  toward  him,  and  that  worldly 
considerations  alone  inspired  her  refusal. 

"Oh,  you're  silly!"  she  cried.  "I  tell  you  it's  nothing 
of  the  sort." 

The  dusk  of  the  afternoon  softened  her  features;  the 
light  of  the  fire  threw  up  in  clear  outline  the  stylish  well- 
gowned  figure.  Poor  Alec,  in  his  shabby  mustard  suit, 
stood  opposite  her,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  in  dogged  mis- 
ery and  resentment,  with  all  the  helpless  angry  surprise  of 
a  first  experience  of  this  kind,  fairly  unable  to  understand 
how  it  was  that  love  did  not  call  forth  love,  obstinate  in 
clinging  to  the  theory  of  another  reason  as  the  sole  explana- 
tion. Things  did  not  exist  in  vain.  For  what  was  his 
love? 

"But — but  what  am  I  to  do?"  he  stammered. 

Rather  puzzled  —  after  all,  rather  flattered  —  Anna 
prayed  him  to  be  sensible  and  friendly.  He  consented  to 
hope  for  her  happiness,  though  he  was  obviously  not  san- 
guine about  it.  For  himself  all  was  over!  So  he  said  as 
he  flung  out  of  the  room,  knowing  nothing  of  what  lay 
before  him  on  the  path  of  life;  discerning  nothing  of  a  cer- 
tain daughter  of  a  poor  old  political  writer — a  little  round 
woman  who  made  her  own  gowns,  was  at  once  very  thrifty 


ASPIRATIONS  301 

and  very  untidy,  was  inclined  to  think  that  the  rulers  of 
the  earth  should  be  forcibly  exterminated,  and  lavished  an 
unstinted  affection  on  every  being,  human  or  brute,  with 
which  she  was  ever  brought  into  contact.  And  if  she  did 
not  greatly  influence  the  trend  of  public  opinion — well,  any- 
how she  tried  to.  Just  now,  however,  Alec  knew  nothing 
about  her;  he  was  left  to  think  hopelessly  of  the  trim  figure 
and  the  lost  ideals — the  two  things  would  mix  themselves 
up  in  his  mind. 

To  his  pathetic  stormy  presence  there  succeeded  Walter 
Blake,  with  all  his  accomplishment  in  the  art  of  smooth 
love-making,  with  his  aspirations  again  nicely  adjusted  to 
the  object  of  his  desires  (he  was  so  much  cleverer  than 
poor  Alec  over  that!),  with  his  power  to  flatter  not  only 
by  love  but  still  more  by  relative  weakness.  He,  of  course, 
did  not  run  at  the  thing  as  Alec  had  done.  That  would 
be  neither  careful  of  the  chances  nor  economical  of  the 
pleasure.  Many  a  talk  was  needed  before  his  purpose  be- 
came certain  or  Anna  could  show  any  sign  of  understand- 
ing it.  m 

He  dealt  warily  with  her;  he  was  trying,  unconsciously 
perhaps,  to  perform  the  task  Caylesham  had  indicated  to 
him — the  task  of  learning  her  paces  and  adapting  his  there- 
to. It  was  part  of  his  theory  about  her  that  she  must  be 
approached  with  great  caution;  and  of  course  he  knew 
that  there  was  one  very  delicate  bit  of  ground.  How  much 
had  she  heard  about  himself  and  Sibylla  ?  It  was  long  be- 
fore he  mentioned  Sibylla's  name.  At  last  he  ventured  on 
throwing  out  a  feeler.  Anna's  unruffled  composure  per- 
suaded him  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  facts;  but  her 
shrewd  analysis  of  Sibylla  showed,  in  his  judgment,  that 
she  quite  understood  the  woman.  It  was  the  dusk  of  the 
afternoon  again  (Anna  rather  affected  that  time  of  day), 
and  Blake,  with  a  sigh  which  might  be  considered  as  in  the 
nature  of  a  confession,  ventured  to  say: 


3o2  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"I  wish  I  could  read  people  as  you  can.  I  should  have 
avoided  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"You  can  read  yourself  anyhow,  can't  you?"  asked 
Anna. 

"By  Jove,  that's  good — that's  very  good!  No,  I  don't 
know  that  I  can.  But  I  expect  you  can  read  me,  Miss 
Selford.  I  shall  have  to  come  to  you  for  lessons,  shan't 
I?" 

"I'll  tell  you  all  the  hard  bits,"  she  laughed. 

"You'll  have  to  see  a  lot  of  me  to  do  that!" 

Anna  was  not  quite  so  sure  of  the  need,  but  she  did  not 
propose  to  stop  the  game. 

"Do  I  seem  so  very  reluctant  to  see  a  lot  of  you?"  she 
inquired. 

Blake's  eyes  caught  hers  through  the  semi-darkness. 
She  was  aware  of  the  emotion  with  which  he  regarded 
her.  It  found  an  answer  in  her,  an  answer  which  for  the 
moment  upset  both  her  coolness  and  her  sense  of  mastery. 
She  had  a  revelation  that  her  dominion,  not  seriously 
threatened,  would  be  pleasantly  chequered  by  intervals  of 
an  instinctive  submission.  This  feeling  almost  smothered 
the  element  of  contempt  which  had  hitherto  mingled  in 
her  liking  for  him  and  impaired  the  pride  of  her  con- 
quest. 

"I  was  judging  you  by  myself.  Compared  with  me,  you 
seem  reluctant,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  coming  a  little 
nearer  to  her.  "But  then  it  does  me  such  a  lot  of  good 
to  come  and  see  you.  It's  not  only  the  pleasure  I  come  for, 
though  that's  very  great.     You  keep  up  my  ideals." 

"I'm  so  glad.  The  other  day  I  was  tolc  I'd  ruined  all 
somebody's  ideals.  Well,  I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you  that, 
I  suppose;  but  it  slipped  out." 

Things  will  slip  out,  if  one  takes  care  to  leave  the  door 
Open. 


ASPIRATIONS  303 

She  was  standing  by  the  table,  and  Blake  was  now  close 
by  her. 

"Since  I've  known  you " 

uWhy,  you've  known  me  for  years,  Mr.  Blake!" 

"No,  I  only  knew  a  little  girl  till — till  I  came  back  to 
town  this  time."  He  referred  to  that  yachting  cruise  on 
which  he  had  ultimately  started  alone.  uBut  since  then 
I've  been  a  different  sort  of  fellow.  I  want  to  go  on  being 
different,  and  you  can  help  me."  His  voice  trembled;  he 
was  wrapped  up  in  his  emotion  and  abundantly  sure  of  its 
sincerity. 

Anna  moved  away  a  little,  now  rather  nervous,  since  no 
instinct,  however  acute,  can  give  quite  the  assurance  that 
practice  brings.  But  she  was  very  triumphant  too,  and, 
moreover,  a  good  deal  touched.  That  break  in  young 
Blake's  voice  had  done  him  good  service  before :  it  never 
became  artificial  or  overdone,  thanks  to  his  faculty  of  com- 
ing quite  fresh  to  every  new  emotional  crisis ;  it  was  always 
most  happily  natural. 

"Anna!"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hands,  with  those 
skilfully  appealing  eyes  of  his  just  penetrating  to 
hers. 

With  a  long-drawn  breath  she  gave  him  her  hand.  He 
pressed  it,  and  began  to  draw  her  gently  toward  him.  She 
yielded  to  him  slowly,  thinking  at  the  last  moment  of  what 
she  had  decided  she  would  never  think  about  and  would 
show  no  wisdom  in  recalling.  The  vision  of  another 
woman  had  shot  into  her  mind,  and  for  a  few  seconds 
gave  her  pause.  Her  hesitation  was  short,  and  left  her 
self-confidence  unbroken.  What  she  had  won  she  would 
keep.  The  dead  should  burv  its  dead — a  thing  it  had 
declined  to  do  for  Christine  Fanshaw. 

"Anna !"  he  said  again.  "Do  you  want  me  to  say 
more?  Isn't  that  saying  it  all?  I  can't  say  all  of  it  you 
know." 


3o4  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

She  let  him  draw  her  slowly  to  him ;  but  she  had  spoken 
no  word,  and  was  not  yet  in  his  arms,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  she  became  aware  of  a  man  standing  on  the 
threshold.  Young  Blake,  all  engrossed,  had  noticed  noth- 
ing, but  he  had  perceived  her  yielding. 

"Ah,  my  Anna  I"  he  whispered  rapturously. 

"Hush!"  she  hissed,  drawing  her  hand  sharply  away. 
"Is  that  you,  Richards?" 

Richards  was  the  Selfords'  man-servant. 

The  man  laughed. 

"If  you'd  turn  the  light  on,  you  couldn't  mistake  me 
for  anybody  so  respectable  as  Richards,"  he  said.  "I've 
been  with  your  father  in  the  study,  and  he  told  me  I 
should  find  your  mother  here." 

Anna  recognised  the  voice. 

"Mr.  Imason !     I  didn't  know  you  were  in  London." 

"Just  up  for  the  day,  and  I  wanted  to  see  your  father." 

Anna  moved  to  the  switch  and  turned  on  the  light.  She 
glanced  hastily  at  young  Blake.  He  had  not  moved;  his 
face  was  rather  red,  and  he  looked  unhappy.  Anna's  feel- 
ing was  one  of  pronounced  anger  against  Grantley  Imason. 
His  appearance  had  all  the  effect  of  purposed  malice;  it 
made  her  feel  at  once  jealous  and  absurd.  But  it  was  on 
her  own  behalf  that  she  resented  it.  She  was  not  free 
from  a  willingness  that  Blake  should  be  made  uncomfort- 
able; so  much  discipline  would  be  quite  wholesome  for 
him.  For  her  own  part,  though,  she  wanted  to  get  out  of 
the  room. 

"May  I  ring  for  the  real  Richards  and —  Oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Blake,  how  are  you?  May  I  ring  for  the 
real  Richards,  and  send  word  to  your  mother,  Anna  ?" 

Grantley  was,  as  usual,  urbane  and  unperturbed. 

"I'll  go  and  find  her  for  you.    I  think  she's  lying  down." 

"Oh,  well,  then " 


ASPIRATIONS  305 

"No,  I  know  she'll  want  to  see  you,"  and  Anna  ran 
lightly  out  of  the  room. 

Grantley  strolled  to  an  armchair  and  sank  into  it.  He 
did  not  look  at  Blake,  nor,  his  formal  greeting  given,  ap- 
pear conscious  of  his  presence. 

Young  Blake  was  in  a  turmoil.  He  hated  to  see  Grant- 
ley;  all  the  odious  thought  of  his  failure  and  defeat  was 
brought  back.  He  hated  that  Grantley  should  have  seen 
him  making  love  to  Anna  Selford,  for  in  his  heart  he  was 
conscious  that  he  could  not  cheat  an  outside  vision  as  he 
could  manage  to  cheat  himself.  But  both  these  feelings, 
if  not  swallowed  up  in  fear,  were  at  least  outdone  by  it. 
His  great  desire  had  been  to  settle  this  matter  finally  and 
irrevocably  before  a  hint  of  it  came  to  the  ears  either  of 
Grantley  or  of  Sibylla.     What  would  Grantley  do  now? 

"You  saw  us?"  he  asked  in  a  sullen  anxious  voice. 

"I  couldn't  help  it.  I'm  sorry,"  said  Grantley  in  colour- 
less politeness. 

"Well?" 

"I  really  don't  understand  your  question,  Blake.  At 
least  you  seem  to  mean  it  for  a  question." 

"You  do  know  what  I  mean.  I'm  not  going  to  ask  any 
favours  of  you.  I  only  want  to  know  what  you  intend 
to  do?" 

"About  what?" 

"About  what  you  saw — and  heard  too,  I  suppose?" 

Grantley  rose  from  his  chair  in  a  leisurely  fashion,  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire.  He  was  looking  at  young 
Blake  with  a  slight  smile ;  Blake  grew  redder  under  it. 

"Oh,  I  can't  beat  about  the  bush !"  Blake  went  on  im- 
patiently. "You  might,  if  you  chose,  tell  Miss  Selford 
what  you  know." 

"Well?"  said  Grantley  in  his  turn. 

"And — and —    Oh,  you  see  what  might  happen  as  well 


3o6  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

as  I  do.      I — I  meant  to — to  explain  at  my  own  time; 

but " 

"I  shouldn't  let  the  time  come  in  a  hurry,  Blake.  It'll 
be  a  very  awkward  quarter  of  an  hour  for  both  of  you, 
and  quite  unnecessary." 

"Unnecessary?" 

There  was  a  ring  of  hope  in  Blake's  voice;  he  liked  to 
be  told  that  any  such  confession  was  unnecessary,  and 
would  have  welcomed  such  an  assurance  even  from  Grant- 
ley's  hostile  lips. 

"Certainly;  and  equally  unnecessary  that  I  should  tell 
Anna  anything."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  went  on. 
"In  a  different  case  I  might  think  I  had  a  different  duty — 
though,  being  what  you  might  call  an  interested  party,  I 
should  consider  carefully  before  I  allowed  myself  to  act 
on  that  view.  But  as  matters  stand,  you  yourself  have 
made  any  action  on  my  part  superfluous." 

"I  have?" 

"Oh  yes!  You  so  far  injured  the  fame  of  the  woman 
for  whom  you  hadn't  afterwards  the  pluck  to  fight,  that 
it's  not  necessary  for  me  to  tell  Selford  that  you  were  in 
love  with  her  a  few  months  before  you  made  love  to  his 
daughter,  nor  that  you  tried  to  run  away  with  her,  but 
that  in  the  end  you  funked  the  job.  I  needn't  tell  him, 
because  he  knows — and  his  wife  knows.  You  took  care 
of  that." 

Young  Blake  said  nothing,  though  he  opened  his  lips  as 
if  to  speak. 

"And  I  needn't  tell  Anna  either.  That's  unnecessary 
for  the  same  reason.  She  knows  just  as  well  as  her  father 
and  mother  know." 

"She  knows  nothing,  I  tell  you.  She  hasn't  an 
idea " 

"Did  you  see  her  face  when  she  saw  that  I — wasn't 
Richards?" 


ASPIRATIONS  307 

"I  tell  you —  She  was  embarrassed,  of  course — 
But " 

"She  knows  quite  well,  Blake.  Oh,  not  the  details,  but 
the  main  thing.  She  knows  that  quite  well.  And  she  will 
have  made  her  decision.  There's  no  duty  incumbent  on 
me." 

"You'll  say  nothing    then?" 

"I  shall  say  nothing  at  all." 

Grantley  relapsed  into  silence — a  most  easy  self-pos- 
sessed silence.  His  eyes  were  on  young  Blake  no  more, 
but  rested  placidly  on  one  of  Selford's  best  pictures  on  the 
opposite  wall.  Blake  cleared  his  throat,  and  shifted  un- 
easily from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"Why  do  you  stay?"  asked  Grantley  mildly.  "Wouldn't 
it  be  better  to  continue  your  interview  with  Anna  else- 
where?    Mrs.  Selford's  coming  in  here,  you  see." 

Blake  broke  out: 

"God  knows,  Imason,  it's  difficult  for  me  to  say  a  word 
to  you,  but " 

Grantley  raised  his  hand  a  little. 

"It's  impossible,"  he  said.  "There  can  be  no  words 
between  you  and  me  about  that.  And  what  does  it  matter 
to  you  what  I  think?  I  shall  hold  my  tongue.  And  you'll 
feel  sure  I've  no  real  cause  of  complaint — quite  sure  if 
only  I  hold  my  tongue.  And  I  think  Anna  will  hold  her 
tongue.  Then  you'll  forget  she  knows,  and  go  on  postur- 
ing before  her  with  entire  satisfaction  to  yourself."  He 
turned  his  eyes  on  him  and  laughed  a  little.  "As  long  as 
you  can  humbug  yourself  or  anybody  else,  or  even  get  other 
people  to  let  you  think  you're  humbugging  them,  you're 
quite  happy,  you  know." 

Blake  looked  at  him  once  or  twice,  but  his  tongue  found 
no  words.     He  turned  and  walked  toward  the  door, 

"Wait  in  the  dining-room,"  said  Grantley. 


308  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

Blake  went  out  without  turning  or  seeming  to  hear. 
After  a  moment  or  two  Anna's  step  came  down  the  stairs. 

"Mamma'll  be  down  directly,  Mr.  Imason,"  she  called 
as  she  reached  the  door.  Then  her  eyes  took  in  the  room. 
"Mr. — Mr.  Blake?"  she  asked,  with  a  sudden  quick  rush 
of  colour  to  her  cheeks. 

"I  think  you'll  find  him  in  the  dining-room,"  said 
Grantley  gravely. 

She  understood — and  she  did  not  lack  courage.  She 
had  enough  for  two — for  herself  and  for  Blake.  She  met 
Grantley's  look  fair  and  square,  drawing  up  her  trim 
stylish  figure  to  a  stiff  rigidity,  and  setting  her  lips  in  a 
resolute  line.  Grantley  admired  her  attitude  and  her 
open  defiance  of  him.  He  smiled  at  her  in  a  confidential 
mockery. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Imason,  I'll  look  for  him.  You'll  be  all 
right  till  mamma  comes?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall  be  all  right,  thanks,  Anna." 

He  smiled  still.  Anna  gave  him  another  look  of  defi- 
ance. 

"I  intend  to  go  my  own  way;  I  know  what  I'm  about. 
I  don't  care  a  pin  what  you  think."  The  glance  seemed 
to  Grantley  as  eloquent  as  Lord  Burghley's  nod.  And  no 
more  than  Lord  Burghley  did  she  spoil  its  effect  by  words. 
She  gave  it  to  Grantley  full  and  square,  then  turned  on 
her  heel  and  swung  jauntily  out  of  the  room. 

Grantley's  smile  vanished.  He  screwed  up  his  lips  as 
if  he  had  tasted  something  rather  sour. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-THREE 

A   THING   OF   FEAR 

GRANTLEY  IMASON  had  intended  to  go  down 
to  Milldean  that  same  evening,  but  a  summons 
from  Tom  Courtland  reached  him,  couched  in 
such  terms  that  he  could  not  hesitate  to  obey  it.  He 
sought  Tom  at  his  club  the  moment  he  received  the  mes- 
sage. Tom  had  been  sent  for  to  his  own  house  in  the 
morning,  and  had  heard  what  had  happened  there.  He 
had  seen  the  wounded  child  and  the  other  two  terrified 
little  creatures.  Suzette  Bligh  gave  him  her  account.  The 
doctor  told  him  that  Sophy  was  no  longer  in  danger,  but 
that  the  matter  was  a  grave  one — a  very  serious  shock 
and  severe  local  injury ;  the  child  would  recover  with  care 
and  with  quiet,  but  would  always  bear  a  mark  of  the 
wound,  an  ineffaceable  scar.  That  was  the  conclusion, 
half  good  half  bad,  reached  after  a  night  of  doubt  whether 
Sophy  would  not  die  from  the  violence  and  the  shock. 

"Did  you  see  your  wife?"  Grantley  asked. 

"See  her?  I  should  kill  her  if  I  saw  her,"  groaned 
Tom. 

"But — but  what's  being  done?" 

"She's  in  her  room — she's  been  there  ever  since  it  hap- 
pened. Suzette's  seen  her — nobody  else.  Nobody  else 
will  go  near  her.  Of  course  while  there  was  a  doubt  about 
Sophy — well,  the  doctor  made  it  a  condition  that  she 
should  confine  herself  to  her  room  till  the  thing  took  a 
definite  turn.  I  hope  she's  frightened  at  last.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  The  woman  ought  to  be  hanged, 
Grantley." 

309 


3io  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

But  wrath  and  horror  at  his  wife  were  not  the  only  feel- 
ings in  Tom's  mind;  the  way  the  thing  had  happened  raised 
other  thoughts.  He  was  prostrate  under  the  sense  that 
the  fury  which  had  smitten  poor  little  Sophy  had  been 
aimed  at  him;  his  acts  had  inspired  and  directed  it.  He 
had  made  his  children's  love  for  him  a  crime  in  their 
mother's  eyes.  All  his  excuses,  both  false  and  real,  failed 
him  now.  His  own  share  in  the  tragedy  of  his  home  was 
heavy  and  heinous  in  his  eyes. 

"I  ought  to  have  remembered  the  children,"  he  kept 
repeating  desperately.  He  ought  to  have  stayed  and 
fought  the  battle  for  and  with  them,  however  hard  the 
battle  was.  But  he  had  run  away — to  Mrs.  Bolton — and 
left  them  alone  to  endure  the  increased  fury  of  Harriet's 
rage.  "I've  been  a  damned  coward  over  it,"  he  said,  "and 
this  is  what  comes  of  it,  Grantley!" 

It  was  all  true.  Tom  had  not  thought  of  the  children. 
Even  though  he  loved  them,  he  had  deserted  them  treach- 
erously, because  he  had  considered  only  his  own  wrongs, 
and  had  been  wrapped  up  in  his  personal  quarrel  with  his 
wife.  What  he  had  found  unendurable  himself  he  had 
left  those  helpless  little  creatures  to  endure.  All  the  argu- 
ments which  had  seemed  so  strong  to  justify  or  to  palliate 
his  resort  to  the  Bolton  refuge  sounded  weak  and  mean 
to  him  now — and  to  Grantley  too,  who  had  been  used  to 
rely  on  them,  lightly  accepting  them  with  a  man  of  the 
world's  easy  philosophy.  His  friends  had  almost  encour- 
aged Tom  in  his  treacherous  desertion  of  his  children; 
they  too  had  looked  at  nothing  but  the  merits  of  his  quar- 
rel with  Harriet,  putting  that  by  itself  in  a  false  isolation 
from  the  total  life  of  the  family,  of  which  it  was  in  truth 
an  integral  indivisible  part.  So  Grantley  meditated  as  he 
listened  to  Tom's  laments;  and  the  meditation  was  not 
without  meaning  and  light  for  him  also. 


A  THING  OF  FEAR  311 

Tom  had  a  request  to  make  of  him — that  he  would  go 
round  to  the  house  and  spend  the  evening  there. 

"I  daren't  trust  myself  near  Harriet,"  he  said,  "and  I'm 
uneasy  with  only  the  servants  there.  They're  all  afraid 
of  her.  She  was  cowed,  Suzette  says,  while  there  was 
danger;  but  she  may  break  out  again — anything  might 
start  her  again.  If  you  could  stay  till  she's  safely  in 
bed " 

"I'll  stay  all  night,  if  necessary,  old  fellow,"  said  Grant- 
ley  promptly. 

"It'll  take  a  weight  off  my  mind — and  I've  got  about 
enough  to  bear.  I'm  going  to  stay  here,  of  course;  so 
you'll  know  where  to  find  me  if  I'm  wanted,  though  I  don't 
see  what  can  happen  now." 

Terror  brooded  over  the  Courtlands'  house.  Grantley 
rejoiced  to  see  how  his  coming  did  something  to  lift  the 
cloud.  The  two  children  left  Suzette's  side  (they  loved 
her,  but  she  seemed  to  them  a  defence  all  too  frail),  and 
came  to  him,  standing  on  either  side  of  his  knee  and  put- 
ting their  hands  in  his.  The  listening  strained  look  passed 
out  of  their  eyes  as  he  talked  to  them.  Presently  little 
Vera  climbed  up  and  nestled  on  his  knee,  while  Lucy  leant 
against  his  shoulder,  and  he  got  them  to  prattle  about 
happy  things,  old  holidays  and  bygone  treats  to  which  Tom 
had  taken  them.  At  last  Lucy  laughed  merrily  at  some 
childish  memory.  The  sound  went  straight  to  Grantley's 
heart;  a  great  tenderness  came  upon  him.  As  he  kissed 
them,  his  thoughts  flew  to  his  own  little  son — the  child 
who  had  now  begun  to  know  love,  to  greet  it  and  to  ask 
for  it.  How  these  poor  children  prized  even  a  decent 
kindness !  Grantley  seemed  to  himself  to  have  done  a  fine 
day's  work — as  fine  a  day's  work  as  he  had  ever  done  in 
his  life — when  he  sent  them  off  to  bed  with  smiling  lips 
and  eyes  relieved  of  dread. 


3i2  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"You  won't  go  away  to-night,  will  you?"  Lucy  whis- 
pered as  she  kissed  him  good-night. 

"Of  course  he's  not  going!"  cried  little  Vera,  bravely 
confident  in  the  strength  of  her  helplessness. 

"No,  I'll  stay  all  night — all  the  whole  night,"  Grantley 
promised. 

He  made  his  camp  in  the  library  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  there  presently  Suzette  Bligh  came  to  see  him.  She 
gave  a  good  account  of  the  wounded  child.  Sophy  slept; 
the  capable  cheery  woman  who  had  come  as  nurse  gave 
her  courage  to  sleep. 

"We  must  get  her  away  to  the  seaside  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, and  she'll  get  all  right,  I  think;  though  there  must 
be  a  mark  always.  And  of  course  the  permanent  question 
remains.     Isn't  it  all  hopeless,  Mr.  Imason?" 

"It's  a  terrible  business  for  you  to  be  involved  in." 

"Oh,  I  can  only  thank  heaven  I  was  here !  But  for  me 
I  believe  she'd  have  killed  the  child." 

"What  state  is  she  in  now?" 

"I  really  don't  know.  She  won't  speak  to  me.  She  sits 
quite  still,  just  staring  at  me.  I  try  to  stay  with  her,  but 
it's  too  dreadful.  I  can't  help  hating  her — and  I  think 
she  knows  it." 

Grantley  had  some  experience  of  coming  to  know  what 
people  feel  about  him. 

"I  expect  she  does,"  he  nodded. 

"What  will  happen,  Mr.  Imason?" 

"I  don't  know — except  that  the  children  mustn't  stay 
with  her.  Is  she  afraid  of  being  prosecuted,  do  you 
think?" 

"She  hasn't  said  anything  about  it.  No,  she  doesn't 
seem  afraid;  I  don't  think  that's  her  feeling.  But — but 
her  eyes  look  awful.  When  I  had  to  tell  her  that  the  doc- 
tor had  forbidden  her  to  come  near  the  children,  and  said 


A  THING  OF  FEAR  313 

he  would  send  the  police  into  the  house  if  she  tried  to  go 
to  them — well,  I've  never  seen  such  an  expression  on  any 
human  face  before.  She  looked  like — like  somebody  in 
hell,  Mr.  Imason." 

"Ah!"  groaned  Grantley  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  as 
though  he  turned  from  a  fearful  spectacle. 

"I've  just  been  with  her.  I  persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed 
— she's  not  slept  since  it  happened,  I  know — and  got  her 
to  let  me  help  her  to  undress.  Her  maid  won't  go  to  her; 
she's  too  frightened.  I  hope  she'll  go  to  sleep,  or  really 
I  think  she'll  lose  her  senses."  She  paused  and  then  asked: 
"Will  this  make  any  difference  in — in  the  proceedings?" 

"Well,  it  gives  Tom  something  to  bargain  with,  doesn't 
it?  But  you  can't  tell  with  her.  The  ordinary  motives 
may  not  appeal  to  her,  any  more  than  the  natural  feelings. 
I  hope  it  may  be  possible  to  frighten  her." 

"Anyhow  the  children  won't  have  to  stay?  You're  sure 
of  that?" 

"We  must  try  hard  for  that,"  said  Grantley. 

But  Tom  had  made  even  that  more  difficult,  because  he 
had  considered  only  his  own  quarrel,  and,  not  thinking  of 
the  children,  had  run  away  to  refuge  with  Mrs.  Bolton, 
saving  his  own  skin  by  treacherous  flight. 

Suzette  bade  Grantley  good-night.  She  too  must  sleep, 
or  her  strength  would  fail. 

"You'll  keep  the  door  open?"  she  asked.  "And  her 
room  is  just  over  this.  You'll  hear  if  she  moves,  though 
I  don't  think  she  will.  It  is  good  of  you,  Mr.  Imason. 
We  shall  all  sleep  quietly  to-night.  Oh,  but  how  tired 
you'll  be!" 

"Not  I !"  he  smiled.  "I've  often  sat  up  till  daylight  on 
less  worthy  occasions.  You're  the  hero!  You've  come 
through  this  finely." 

Suzette's  cheeks  flushed  at  his  praise. 


3i4  DOUBLE    HARNESS 

"I  do  love  the  poor  children,"  she  said,  as  Grantley 
pressed  her  hand. 

He  sat  down  to  his  vigil.  The  house  became  very  still. 
Once  or  twice  steps  passed  to  and  fro  in  the  room  above; 
then  there  was  silence.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  perhaps, 
there  were  steps  again;  then  another  interval  of  quiet. 
This  alternation  of  movement  and  rest  went  on  for  a  long 
time.  If  Harriet  Courtland  slept,  her  sleep  was  broken. 
But  presently  Grantley  ceased  to  mark  the  sound — ceased 
even  to  think  of  the  Courtlands  or  of  the  house  where  he 
was.  Led  by  the  experiences  of  the  day  and  by  the  feel- 
ings they  had  evoked,  his  thoughts  took  their  way  to  Mill- 
dean,  to  his  own  home,  to  his  wife  and  son.  How  nearly 
tragedy  had  come  there  too !  Nay,  was  it  yet  gone  ?  Was 
not  its  shadow  still  over  the  house?  And  why?  He 
looked  back  again  at  the  Courtlands — at  Harriet's  un- 
hallowed rage,  at  Tom's  weakness  and  desertion,  at  the 
fate  of  the  children — not  thought  of  and  forgotten  by  the 
one,  ill-used  and  put  in  terror  by  the  other.  He  recollected 
how  once  they  used  to  joke  about  the  Courtlands,  being 
at  any  rate  useful  as  a  warning.  That  joke  had  taken  on 
too  keen  an  edge  to  sound  mirthful  now.  But  the  serious 
truth  in  it  came  home  to  him,  making  plain  what  he  had 
been  groping  after  ever  since  that  night  at  the  Sailors' 
Rest  at  Fairhaven,  ever  since  Sibylla  had  opened  her 
mouth  against  him  and  spoken  the  bitterness  of  her  heart. 
Yes,  he  thought  he  saw  where  the  truth  lay  now.  Ca- 
lamity held  up  a  torch  to  light  his  wandering  feet. 

No  borrowed  light  had  made  plain  the  steps  of  the 
woman  upstairs.  The  glare  of  her  own  ruin  had  been 
needed  to  illuminate  the  way  she  trod,  so  dense  was  the 
turbid  darkness  of  her  spirit.  She  saw  now  where  she 
stood — and  there  seemed  no  going  back.  She  had  fallen 
into  fits  of  remorse  before — she  had  called  herself  cursed 


A  THING  OF  FEAR  315 

over  her  betrayal  of  Christine.  That  was  nothing  to  this; 
yet  she  remembered  it  now,  and  it  went  to  swell  the  wave 
of  despair  which  overwhelmed  her.  Well  might  her  eyes 
look  like  the  eyes  of  one  in  hell,  for  she  was  cut  off  from 
all  love  and  sympathy.  She  herself  had  severed  all  those 
bonds  whereby  a  human  being  becomes  other  than  a  rov- 
ing solitary  brute.  There  was  no  re-binding  them.  No- 
body would  come  near  her;  nobody  could  endure  her 
presence;  she  was  a  thing  of  hatred  and  of  fear.  Even 
Suzette  Bligh  shrank  while  she  served,  and  loathed  while 
she  ministered.  Her  husband  could  not  trust  himself  in 
the  house  with  her,  and  she  could  not  be  trusted  in  the 
room  with  her  children.  By  the  narrowest  luck  she  was 
not  a  murderess;  in  the  hearts  of  all,  and  in  her  own  heart, 
she  seemed  a  leper — a  leper  among  people  who  were  whole 
— an  unclean  thing — because  of  her  bestial  rage. 

These  thoughts  had  been  in  her  mind  all  the  night  be- 
fore and  all  the  day.  They  did  not  consort  with  sleep 
nor  make  terms  with  peaceful  rest.  Sometimes  they  drove 
her  to  wild  and  passionate  outbursts  of  weeping  and  im- 
precation; oftener  they  chained  her  motionless  to  her  chair, 
so  still  that  only  her  angry  eyes  showed  life  and  conscious- 
ness. They  left  little  room  for  fear  of  any  external  pun- 
ishment, or  for  shame  at  any  public  exposure.  They  went 
deeper  than  that,  condemning  not  the  body  but  the  soul, 
pronouncing  not  the  verdict  of  the  world,  but  of  herself 
and  of  nature's  inexorable  law.  They  displayed  the  pro- 
gression of  evil — weakness  growing  to  vice,  vice  turning 
to  crime,  crime  throttling  all  the  good — till  she  had  be- 
come a  thing  horrible  to  those  about  her,  horrible  and  in- 
credible even  to  herself.  And  there  was  no  going  back, 
no  going  back  at  all.  Her  will  was  broken,  and  she  had 
no  hope  in  herself.  The  weights  were  on  her  feet,  and 
dragged  her  down  the  abyss  which  now  lay  open  and  re- 
vealed before  her  eyes. 


3i6  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

Suzette  had  persuaded  her  to  undress  and  go  to  bed. 
She  must  sleep — yes,  or  she  would  go  mad  with  the 
thoughts.  But  where  was  sleep  with  the  agony  of  their 
sting?  She  had  her  chloral — an  old  ally — and  had  re- 
course to  it.  Then  she  would  fling  herself  on  the  bed  and 
try  to  think  she  could  sleep.  Exasperation  drove  her  up 
again,  and  she  paced  the  room  in  wrathful  despair,  curs- 
ing herself  because  she  could  not  sleep,  battling  against 
the  remorseless  thoughts,  exclaiming  against  their  tor- 
tures, refusing  the  inquisition  to  which  they  subjected  her. 
Then — back  to  bed  again  for  another  futile  effort,  another 
cry  of  despair,  to  be  followed  by  another  outburst  of  wild 
impatience,  another  fierce  unavailing  struggle  against  her 
tormentors,  new  visions  of  what  she  was  and  of  what  her 
life  must  be. 

This  was  not  a  thing  that  she  would  endure;  nobody 
could  endure  it  and  keep  sanity.  It  should  be  ended !  Her 
fierce  defiant  fury  rose  yet  once  more;  the  temper  which 
had  wrought  all  the  calamity  was  not  tamed  by  it  in  the 
end.  She  turned  to  her  drug  again.  She  knew  there  was 
danger  in  that,  but  she  put  the  notion  behind  her  scorn- 
fully. Why,  the  stuff  would  not  even  make  her  sleep! 
Could  it  hurt  her  when  it  could  not  even  give  her  sleep? 
That  was  nonsense,  stupid  nonsense.  She  would  have 
sleep!  Nature  fell  victim  to  her  rage  now;  she  would 
beat  nature  down  by  her  fury,  as  she  had  been  wont  to 
beat  down  all  opposing  wills.  She  had  listened  to  noth- 
ing in  her  tempests.  Now  she  rose  again  to  the  whirlwind 
of  passion,  denying  what  she  knew,  refusing  to  look  at  it. 
Kill  herself?  Not  she!  Yet  if  she  did,  what  matter? 
Had  she  anything  to  look  for  in  life?  Would  anybody 
grieve  for  her?  It  would  be  a  riddance  for  all  of  them  if 
she  died.  But  she  wouldn't  die.  No  danger  of  that — 
and  no  such  luck  either !   Each  dose  left  her  more  pitiably 


A  THING  OF  FEAR  317 

wide-awake,  more  gruesomely  alert  in  mind,  more  hid- 
eously acute  to  feel  the  sting  of  those  torturing  thoughts. 
An  over-dose  indeed!  No  dose,  it  seemed,  could  serve 
even  to  dull  the  sharpness  of  her  mordant  reflections.  But 
she  would  have  sleep — at  all  costs,  sleep  !  She  cursed  her- 
self vilely  because  she  could  not  sleep. 

Thus  came,  as  of  old,  now  for  the  last  time,  the  mad- 
ness and  blindness  of  her  rage,  the  rage  which  forgot  all 
save  itself,  merged  every  other  consciousness,  spared  no- 
body and  nothing.  It  was  turned  against  herself  now,  and 
neither  did  it  spare  herself.  She  drugged  herself  again, 
losing  all  measure,  and  then  flung  herself  heavily  on  the 
bed.  Ah!  Yes,  surely  there  was  a  change  now?  The 
horrid  pictures  grew  mercifully  dim,  the  sting  of  the  tor- 
turing thoughts  was  drawn,  the  edge  of  conscience  blunted. 
Her  rage  had  had  its  way,  it  had  beaten  down  nature. 
For  a  moment  she  grasped  this  triumph,  and  exulted  in 
it  in  her  old  barbarous  gloating  over  the  victories  of  her 
fury.  All  things  had  been  against  her  sleep.  But  now 
it  came;  she  had  won  it.  She  ceased  to  move,  to  curse, 
even  to  think.  The  blessed  torpor  stole  over  her.  Her 
life  and  what  it  must  be  passed  from  her  mind;  a  com- 
passionate blankness  spread  over  her  intellect.  She  was 
at  peace!  To-morrow — yes,  to-morrow!  All  things 
could  wait  now  till  to-morrow.  She  would  be  better  able 
to  face  them  to-morrow — after  a  good  night's  sleep.  Who 
had  dared  to  say  she  could  not  sleep?  Her  eyes  closed, 
and  her  heavy  breathing  sounded  through  the  room.  She 
stirred  no  more.  Her  rage  had  its  way  with  her,  as  with 
all  others.     It  had  demanded  sleep.     She  slept. 

Dawn  had  broken  when  a  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder 
roused  Grantley  Imason  from  an  uneasy  doze.  He  found 
Suzette  by  him  in  her  dressing-gown  and  barefooted.  In- 
stinctively he  listened  for  an  instant  to  hear  if  there  were 


3i8  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

any  sound  from  the  room  above.     There  was  none,  and 

he  asked  her: 

"Is  anything  wrong?" 

"Yes,"  whispered  Suzette.     "Come  upstairs!" 

Not  knowing  what  the  evil  chance  might  be,  he  followed 
her,  and  she  led  him  into  Harriet  Courtland's  room.  She 
had  already  opened  one  of  the  shutters,  and  the  early  light 
streamed  in  on  to  the  bed.  Harriet  lay  on  her  side,  with 
her  head  thrown  back  on  the  pillow,  and  her  eyes  turned 
up  to  the  ceiling.  She  lay  above  the  clothes  of  the  bed, 
and  her  nightgown  was  torn  away  from  her  throat. 
Suzette  had  thrown  a  dressing-gown  over  her  body  from 
breast  to  feet.  She  looked  wonderfully  handsome  as  she 
lay  there,  so  still,  so  peaceful,  like  some  splendid  animal 
in  a  reaction  of  exhaustion  after  savage  grand  exertion. 
He  drew  near.  The  truth  came  home  to  him  at  once. 
The  two  stood  and  looked  at  Harriet.  At  last  he  turned 
to  Suzette.     He  found  her  very  pale,  but  quite  calm. 

"She's  dead,  Mr.  Imason,"  Suzette  said. 

"How?"  he  asked. 

"An  over-dose  of  chloral.  She  often  used  to  take  it — 
and  of  course  she  would  be  very  likely  to  want  a  sleeping- 
draught  last  night." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  she  would.  Her  nerves  would  be 
so  much  upset." 

Their  eyes  met — Suzette's  seemed  puzzled. 

"What  do  you  think?"  asked  Grantley  in  a  whisper. 

"I  really  don't  know.  She  would  really  have  been  quite 
likely  to  take  too  much.  She  would  be  impatient  if  it 
didn't  act  quickly,  you  know." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  she  would.  Have  you  sent  for  the 
doctor?" 

"Oh,  yes,  directly  I  found  her — before  I  came  to  you. 
But  I've  done  some  nursing,   and — and  there's  not  the 


A  THING  OF   FEAR  319 

least — "  She  stopped  suddenly,  and  was  silent  for  several 
seconds.  Then  she  said  quietly  and  calmly:  "There's  not 
the  least  chance,  Mr.  Imason." 

Grantley  knew  what  word  she  had  rejected  in  favour 
of  "chance,"  and  why  the  word  had  seemed  inappropriate. 
He  acknowledged  the  justice  of  the  change  with  a  mourn- 
ful gesture  of  his  hands. 

"Well,  we  can  never  know  whether  it  was  accidental  or 
not,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"No,  we  can  never  know  that,"  said  Suzette. 

How  should  they  know?  Harriet  Courtland  had  not 
known  herself.  As  always,  so  to  the  end,  her  fury  had 
been  blind,  and  had  destroyed  her  blindly.  She  had  struck 
at  herself  as  recklessly  as  at  her  child ;  and  here  her  blow 
had  killed.  Her  rage  had  run  its  final  course,  and  for  the 
last  time  had  its  way.    She  slept. 

And  while  she  slept,  her  home  was  waking  to  the  life 
of  a  new  day. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FOUR 

FRIENDS 

THE  calamity  at  the  Courtlands'  struck  on  all  their 
acquaintance  like  a  nip  of  icy  wind,  sending  a 
shudder  through  them,  making  them,  as  it  were, 
huddle  closer  about  them  the  protectingvesture  of  any  hope 
or  any  happiness  that  they  had.  The  outrage  on  the  child 
stood  out  horrible  in  the  light  of  the  mother's  death :  the 
death  of  the  mother  found  an  appalling  explanation  in  the 
child's  plight.  Whether  the  death  were  by  a  witting  or  an 
unwitting  act  seemed  a  small  matter;  darkness  and  blindness 
had  fallen  on  the  unhappy  woman  before  the  last  hours, 
and  somehow  in  the  darkness  she  had  passed  away.  There 
was  not  lacking  the  last  high  touch  of  tragedy;  the  catas- 
trophe which  shocked  and  awed  was  welcome  too.  It  was 
the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened.  Any  end  was 
better  than  no  end.  To  such  a  point  of  hopelessness  had 
matters  come,  in  such  a  fashion  Harriet  Courtland  had 
used  her  life.  The  men  and  women  who  had  known  her, 
her  kindred,  her  friends,  and  her  household,  all  whom 
nature  had  designed  to  love  her,  while  they  shuddered 
over  the  manner  of  her  going,  sighed  with  relief  that  she 
was  gone.  The  decree  of  fate  had  filled  the  page,  and  it 
was  finished;  but  their  minds  still  tingled  from  it  as  they 
turned  to  the  clean  sheet  and  prayed  a  kinder  message. 

Grantley  Imason,  so  closely  brought  in  contact  with  the 
drama,  almost  an  eye-witness  of  it,  was  deeply  moved, 
stirred  to  fresh  feelings,  and  quickened  to  a  new  vision. 
The  devastation  Harriet  had  wrought,  Tom's  cowardly 
desertion,  the  pitiable  plight  of  the  children,  grouped  them- 

320 


FRIENDS  321 

selves  together  and  took  on,  as  another  of  their  company, 
the  heightened  and  freshened  impression  of  stale  sentimen- 
tality and  a  self-delusion  trivial  to  vulgarity,  which  he  had 
carried  away  from  his  encounter  with  Walter  Blake.  To 
all  this  there  seemed  one  clue;  through  it  all  one  thread 
ran.  He  felt  this  in  the  recesses  of  his  mind,  and  his  fin- 
gers groped  after  the  guiding-line.  That  must  be  found, 
lest,  treading  blindly  through  the  labyrinth,  he  and  his  too 
should  fall  into  the  pit  whence  there  was  no  upward  way. 
They  had  been  half  over  the  brink  once:  a  preternatural 
effort — so  it  might  properly  be  called — had  pulled  them 
back;  but  they  were  still  on  the  treacherous  incline. 

Out  of  his  sombre  and  puzzled  reflections  there  sprang 
— suddenly  as  it  seemed,  and  in  answer  to  his  cry  for 
guidance — an  enlightening  pity — pity  for  his  boy,  lest  he 
also  should  bear  on  his  brow  the  scar  of  hatred,  almost 
as  plain  to  see  as  the  visible  mark  which  was  to  stamp 
little  Sophy's  for  evermore — and  pity  for  Sibylla,  because 
her  empty  heart  had  opened  to  so  poor  a  tenant :  in  very 
hunger  she  had  turned  to  Blake.  He  no  longer  rejected 
the  hope  of  communion  with  the  immature  infantile  mind 
of  his  son;  he  ceased  to  laugh  scornfully  at  a  love  dedi- 
cated to  such  a  man  as  Walter  Blake.  A  new  sympathy 
with  his  boy — even  such  as  he  had  felt  for  Tom  Court- 
land's  little  girls — spurred  him  to  fresh  efforts  to  under- 
stand. Contempt  for  his  wife's  impulsive  affections  gave 
way  to  compassion  as  his  mind  dwelt  not  on  what  she  had 
done,  but  on  what  had  driven  her  to  do  it — as  he  threw 
back  his  thoughts  from  the  unworthy  satisfaction  her  heart 
had  sought  to  the  straits  of  starvation  which  had  made 
any  satisfaction  seem  so  good.  This  was  to  look  in  the 
end  at  himself,  and  to  the  task  of  studying  himself  he  was 
now  thrust  back.  If  he  could  not  do  that,  and  do  it  to  a 
purpose,  desolation  and  pitiableness  such  as  he  had  wit- 


322  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

nessed  and  shuddered  at  stood  designated  as  the  unaltera- 
ble future  of  his  own  home. 

Then,  at  last,  he  was  impatient;  his  slow  persevering 
campaign  was  too  irksome,  and  success  delayed  seemed  to 
spell  failure.  The  time  comes  when  no  man  can  work. 
The  darkness  might  fall  on  his  task  still  unperformed.  He 
became  afraid,  and  therefore  impatient.  He  could  not 
wait  for  Sibylla  to  come  to  him.  He  must  meet  her — in 
something  more  than  civility,  in  something  more  than  a 
formal  concession  of  her  demands,  more  than  an  acquies- 
cence which  had  been  not  untouched  by  irony  and  by  the 
wish  to  put  her  in  the  wrong.  He  must  forget  his  claims 
and  think  of  his  needs.  His  needs  came  home  to  him  now ; 
his  claims  could  wait.  And  as  his  needs  cried  out,  there 
dawned  in  him  a  glow  of  anticipation.  What  would  it  not 
mean  if  the  needs  could  be  satisfied? 

He  stayed  in  London  for  Harriet  Courtland's  funeral, 
and  in  the  evening  went  down  to  Milldean,  a  sharper  edge 
given  to  his  thoughts  by  the  sight  of  Tom  and  the  two  little 
girls  (Sophy  could  not  come)  following  Harriet's  coffin  to 
the  grave.  Christine  Fanshaw  was  in  the  carriage  which 
met  him  at  the  station,  and  was  his  companion  on  the 
homeward  drive.  The  Courtland  calamity  had  touched 
her  deeply  too,  but  touched  her  to  bitterness — if  indeed  her 
outward  bearing  could  be  taken  as  a  true  index  of  her 
mind.  She  bore  herself  aggressively  toward  fate  and  its 
lessons;  an  increased  acidity  of  manner  condemned  the  fol- 
lies of  her  friends;  she  dropped  no  tears  over  their  punish- 
ment. Still  there  was  very  likely  something  else  beneath ; 
she  had  not  heard  from  John  since  she  came  down  to  Mill- 
dean. 

uHow  have  you  all  been  getting  on?"  Grantley  asked, 
as  he  took  the  reins  and  settled  himself  beside  her. 

"We've   done   excellently  since  you   went  away.      Of 


FRIENDS  323 

course    we've    been    upset    about   this    horrible    business, 
but " 

"Otherwise  youVe  done  very  well?"  he  smiled. 

"Oh,  yes,  very!" 

"Since  I  went  away?" 

"Yes,  since  you  went  away,"  Christine  repeated. 

"Perhaps  it's  not  a  very  good  thing  for  me  to  come 
back?" 

"We  can  hardly  banish  you  from  your  own  house." 

The  concession  was  grudging.  Grantley  laughed,  and 
the  tone  of  his  laugh  brought  her  eyes  sharply  round  to 
his  face. 

"You  seem  very  cheerful,"  she  remarked,  with  an  accus- 
ing air. 

"No,  I'm  not  that  exactly;  but  I've  got  an  idea — and 
that  brightens  one  up  a  bit,  you  know." 

"Any  change  does  that,"  Christine  admitted  waspishly. 

"I  saw  John  for  a  minute.  He  looked  a  bit  worried. 
Does  he  complain?" 

"He  hasn't  complained  to  me." 

"Oh,  then  it's  all  right,  I  suppose.  And  he  says  the 
business  is  all  right,  anyhow.    How's  the  boy?" 

"As  merry  and  jolly  as  he  can  be." 

"And  Sibylla?" 

"Yes,  Sibylla  too,  as  merry  as  possible." 

"They  both  have  been,  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  do." 

"While  I've  been  away?" 

"Yes,  while  you've  been  away." 

Grantley  laughed  again.  Christine  looked  at  him  in 
dawning  wonder.  She  had  expected  nothing  from  this 
drive  but  a  gloom  deepening — or  at  least  a  constraint  in- 
creasing— with  every  yard  they  came  nearer  to  Milldean. 
But  there  was  something  new.    With  some  regret  she  rec- 


324  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

ognised  that  her  acidity,  her  harping  on  "Since  you  went 
away,"  had  not  formed  the  best  prelude  to  questioning  or 
much  of  an  invitation  to  confidence;  and  it  had,  more- 
over, failed  in  its  primary  purpose  of  annoying  Grantley 
by  its  implied  comment  on  his  conduct.  Her  voice  grew 
softer,  and,  with  one  of  her  coaxing  little  tricks,  she  edged 
herself  closer  to  his  side. 

"Any  good  news  among  all  the  bad,  Grantley  ?" 

"There's  no  good  news  yet,"  said  he. 

She  caught  at  his  last  word. 

"Yet?    Yet,  Grantley?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  talk  any  more.  That  off-horse  is  a 
young  'un,  and " 

"It's  something  to  have  a  'yet'  in  life  again,"  she  half 
whispered.  "  'Yet'  seems  to  imply  a  future — a  change, 
perhaps!" 

"Do  you  want  a  change  too?" 

"Oh,  come,  you're  not  so  dull  as  to  have  to  ask  that!" 

"You've  told  me  nothing." 

"And  I  won't.  But  I'll  ask  you  one  question — if  you'll 
leave  it  at  that." 

"Well,  what's  the  question?" 

"Did  John  send  his  love  to  me?" 

Grantley  looked  at  her  a  moment,  and  smiled  in  depre- 
cation. 

"It  would  have  been  tactful  to  invent  the  message," 
smiled  Christine. 

"I'm  getting  a  bit  out  of  heart  with  tact,  Christine." 

"Quite  so,  my  dear  man.  And  get  out  of  patience  with 
some  other  things  too,  if  you  can.  Your  patience  would 
try  Job — and  not  only  from  jealousy  either." 

Grantley's  only  answer  was  a  reflective  smile. 

"And  what  about  Tom  Courtland?"  she  went  on.  "Is 
he  with  the  children?" 


FRIENDS  325 

"No,  he's  living  at  the  club." 

"Hum!     At  the  club  officially?" 

"You're  malicious — and  you  outrage  proper  feeling. 
At  the  club  really,  Christine.  He  feels  a  bit  lost,  I  fancy. 
I  think  it  rather  depends  on  somebody  else  now.  He's 
a  weak  chap,  poor  old  Tom." 

"You're  full  of  discoveries  about  people  to-day.  Any 
other  news?" 

"No,  none." 

"But,  you  see,  I've  heard  from  Janet  Selford!" 

"Will  you  consider  my  remarks  about  your  remarks  as 
repeated — with  more  emphasis?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will!  You're  talking  more  as  you  used  to 
before  you  were  married." 

"That's  a  compliment?  I  expect  so — coming  from  a 
woman.  Christine,  have  you  read  Sibylla  Janet  Selford's 
letter?" 

"Parts  of  it." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't.  I  didn't  want  her  to  know.  I  saw 
the  fellow  there — with  Anna." 

"Anna's  a  very  clever  girl.     She  does  me  great  credit." 

"I  should  wait  a  bit  to  claim  it,  if  I  were  you.  I'm 
sorry  you  told  Sibylla." 

"If  you're  going  to  be  generous  as  well  as  patient,  there's 
an  end  of  any  chance  of  your  turning  human,  Grantley." 

"You're  quite  good  company  to-day." 

"I'm  always  ready  to  be;  but  one  can't  manage  it  with- 
out some  help." 

"Which  you  haven't  found  in  my  house?" 

"Yes,  I  have — since  you  went  away." 

But  she  said  it  this  time  in  a  different  way,  with  a  hint, 
perhaps  an  appeal,  in  her  upturned  eyes,  and  the  slightest 
touch  of  her  hand  on  his  sleeve — almost  like  the  delicate 
soft  pat  of  a  kitten's  paw,  as  quick,  as  timid,  and  as  ven- 


32b  DOUBLE    HARNESS 

turous.     Grantley  turned  his  head  to  look  at  her.     Her 

eyes  were  bright  and  eager. 

"We've  actually  begun  to  be  pleasant,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"Yes,  almost  to  enjoy  ourselves.  Wonderful!  But 
we're  not  at  the  house  yet!" 

"Not  quite!"  he  said. 

His  face  set  again  in  firm  lines. 

"You'd  so  much  better  not  look  so  serious  about  it. 
That's  as  bad  as  your  old  County  Council !" 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  understand  the  case?" 

"Meaning  the  woman?  Oh,  no!  She's  difficult.  But 
I  understand  that,  when  one  thing's  failed  utterly,  you 
don't  risk  much  by  trying  another." 

They  came  to  the  top  of  the  hill  which  runs  down  to 
Milldean.     Christine  sighed. 

"Poor  old  Harriet!  She  was  a  jolly  girl  once,  you 
know,  and  so  handsome !  I've  had  some  good  times  with 
Harriet.     Do  you  think  she's  at  peace,  Grantley?" 

"She  has  paid,"  said  he.  "She  has  paid  for  what  she 
was  and  did.     I  hope  she's  at  peace." 

Christine's  eyes  grew  dreamy ;  her  voice  fell  to  a  gentle 
murmur. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  quite  silly  to  fancy  that  she's  paid  some- 
thing for  some  of  us  too,  Grantley?  I  was  thinking  some- 
thing like  that — somehow — when  I  said  'Poor  old  Har- 
riet!'" 

"I  daresay  it's  silly,  but  I  don't  know  that  it  seems  so 
to  me,"  he  answered. 

Just  once  again  he  felt  the  tiny  velvety  touch.  So  they 
came  to  Milldean. 

The  twofold  pity  which  had  roused  Grantley  from  a 
lethargy  of  feeling,  misconceived  as  self-control,  had  its 
counterpart  in  the  triple  blow  with  which  the  course  of 
events  assailed  Sibylla's  estimate  of  herself.     In  the  first 


FRIENDS  327 

place,  the  news  about  young  Blake  announced  in  Janet  Sel- 
ford's  letter — indirectly  indeed,  but  yet  with  a  confident 
satisfaction — made  her  ask  whether  her  great  sacrifice  had 
been  offered  at  a  worthy  shrine,  and  her  great  offering  re- 
ceived with  more  than  a  shallow  and  transitory  apprecia- 
tion. In  the  second,  the  thought  and  image  of  the  Court- 
land  children  spoke  loud  to  the  instinct  which  her  ideas  had 
lulled  to  sleep,  bitterly  accusing  her  desertion  of  the  child 
and  her  indifference  to  his  fate,  rousing  her  ever  underlying 
remorse  to  quick  and  vengeful  life.  Lastly,  she  was  stirred 
to  see  and  recognise  the  significance  of  the  third  turn  of  fate 
— the  meaning  of  the  nemesis  which  had  fallen  on  Harriet 
Courtland:  how  she  had  let  her  rage  spare  nothing,  neither 
self-respect,  nor  decency,  nor  love;  and  how,  in  the  end, 
thus  enthroned  in  tyranny,  it  had  not  spared  herself.  The 
three  accusations,  each  with  its  special  import,  each  taking 
up  a  distinct  aspect  of  the  truth  and  enforcing  it  with  a 
poignant  example,  joined  their  indictments  into  one,  and, 
thus  united,  cried  out  their  condemnation  of  her,  taking 
for  their  mouthpiece  Christine  Fanshaw's  pretty  lips,  using 
her  daintily  scornful  voice,  and  the  trenchant  uncompro- 
mising words  from  which  the  utterer  herself  had  after- 
ward recoiled  as  too  coarse  and  crude  to  be  a  legitimate 
weapon  of  attack.  The  logic  of  events  was  not  so  squeam- 
ish ;  it  does  not  deal  in  glosses  or  in  paraphrase ;  it  is  blunt, 
naked,  and  merciless,  and  must  be,  since  only  when  all 
other  appeals  and  warnings  have  failed  does  its  appointed 
work  begin.  It  fastened  with  what  almost  seemed  mali- 
cious glee  on  Christine's  biting  word,  and  enforced  it  by 
a  pitiless  vividness  of  memory,  an  unceasing  echo  in  Sibyl- 
la's thoughts.  Her  emotions  had  gone  ''sprawling"  over 
everything.  The  description  did  not  need  elaboration.  It 
was  abominably  expressive  and  sufficient.  And  it  did  not 
admit  of  pleading  or  of  extenuation.    It  showed  her  touch- 


328  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

ing,  on  one  extreme,  Blake's  shallow  and  spurious  senti- 
ment; on  the  other,  Harriet  Courtland's  licence  of  anger. 
It  pointed  her  attention  to  the  ruin  of  Tom's  life,  to  the 
piteous  plight  of  his  children,  to  Harriet's  fate,  to  Blake's 
facile  forgetfulness  of  love  too  heedlessly  and  wantonly 
offered.  It  stripped  her  fantastic  ideas  of  their  garish 
finery,  leaving  them,  in  the  revulsion  of  her  feelings,  bereft 
of  all  beauty  and  attractiveness.  Impelled  to  look  back, 
she  seemed  to  find  the  same  trail  over  everything — even 
in  those  childish  days  of  which  Jeremy  Chiddingfold  had 
once  given  a  description  that  would  not  have  reassured 
her;  even  in  the  beginning  of  her  acquaintance  with  Grant- 
ley,  in  the  ready  rapture  of  her  first  love,  in  the  intoxica- 
tion of  the  fairy  ride.  Changing  its  form,  now  hostile  to 
her  husband  instead  of  with  him,  the  same  temper  showed 
in  all  the  events  which  led  up  to  the  birth  of  little  Frank: 
its  presence  proved  that  her  madness  over  Blake  was  no 
isolated  incident,  but  rather  the  crown  of  her  development 
and  the  truest  interpreter  of  a  character  empty  of  worth, 
strength,  or  stability.  Many  bitter  hours  brought  her  to 
this  recognition ;  but  when  light  came,  the  very  temper  she 
condemned  was  in  her  still,  and  turned  the  coolness  of  rec- 
ognition and  analysis  into  an  extravagant  heat  of  scorn  and 
self-contempt. 

What  was  the  conclusion?  Was  she  to  throw  herself 
at  Grantley's  feet,  proclaiming  penitence,  imploring  par- 
don, declaring  love?  uNo,  no!"  she  cried.  That  would 
be  so  easy,  so  short  a  cut,  so  satisfying  to  her  roused  feel- 
ings. She  put  the  notion  from  her  in  horror;  it  was  the 
suggestion  of  her  old  devil  in  a  new  disguise.  Her  love 
for  Grantley  had  bitten  too  deep  into  her  nature  to  be 
treated  like  that,  with  that  levity  and  frivolity  of  easy  im- 
pulse, that  violence  of  headstrong  emotion,  those  tempests 
of  feeling  so  remote  from  true  sincerity  of  heart.     The 


FRIENDS  329 

cure  did  not  lie  in  pampering  sick  emotions  into  a  plump 
semblance  of  healthy  life.  Where  did  it  lie,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible at  all?  It  must  lie  in  the  most  difficult  of  all  tasks — 
a  change  not  of  other  people  or  of  their  bearing  and  feel- 
ings toward  her,  but  a  change  of  herself  and  of  her  own 
attitude  toward  others  and  toward  the  world,  and  in  her 
judgment  and  her  ruling  of  herself.  If  things  were  to  go 
differently  with  her,  she  must  be  different.  The  arrogance 
of  her  nature  must  be  abated,  the  extravagant  claims  she 
had  made  must  be  lowered.  The  thought  struck  on  her  al- 
most with  despair.  So  hard  seemed  the  lesson,  so  rough 
the  path.  And  it  seemed  a  path  which  must  be  trodden 
alone.  It  was  not  as  the  easy  pleasant  road  of  emotion, 
beguiled  by  enchanting  companionship,  strewn  with  the 
flowers  of  fancy,  carpeted  with  pleasure.  This  way  was 
hard,  bleak,  and  solitary.  Merely  to  contemplate  it  chilled 
her.  Even  that  happiness  with  her  child,  which  had  so 
struck  Christine  and  afforded  matter  for  one  of  those  keen 
thrusts  at  Grantley  Imason,  appeared  to  her  in  a  sus- 
picious guise.  She  could  not  prevent  it  nor  forgo  it — 
nature  was  too  strong;  but  she  yielded  to  it  with  qualms 
of  conscience,  and  its  innocent  delights  were  spoilt  by  the 
voice  of  self-accusation  and  distrust.  Could  it  be  real, 
genuine,  true,  in  the  woman  who  had  deserted  the  child 
and  been  indifferent  to  his  fate  ? 

Both  penitents,  both  roused  to  self-examination,  Grant- 
ley  Imason  and  his  wife  seemed  to  have  exchanged  parts. 
Each  suffered  an  inversion,  if  not  of  character,  yet  of 
present  mood.  Each  sought  and  desired  something  of 
what  had  appeared  to  deserve  reprobation  when  displayed 
by  the  other.  Their  own  propensities  and  ideals,  carried 
to  an  extreme,  had  threatened  ruin ;  they  erected  the  oppo- 
site temper  of  mind  into  a  standard,  and  thereto  sought 
to  conform  their  conduct  at  the  cost  of  violence  to  them- 


33o  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

selves.  It  seemed  strange,  yet  it  was  the  natural  effect  of 
the  fates  and  the  temperaments  which  they  had  seen 
worked  out  and  displayed  before  their  eyes,  in  such  close 
touch  with  them,  impinging  so  sharply  on  their  own  desti- 
nies. 

Sibylla  had  not  been  at  home  when  Grantley  arrived. 
She  met  him  first  in  the  nursery,  when  she  went  to  see  little 
Frank  at  his  tea.  No  mood,  be  it  what  it  would,  could 
make  Grantley  a  riotous  romping  companion  for  a  tiny 
child :  that  effort  was  beyond  him.  But  to-day  he  played 
with  his  son  with  a  new  sympathy;  talked  to  him  with  a 
pleasant  gravity  which  stirred  the  young  and  curious  mind; 
listened  to  his  broken  utterances  with  a  kindly  quizzical 
smile  which  seemed  to  encourage  the  little  fellow.  Grant- 
ley  had  never  before  found  so  much  answering  intelligence. 
He  forgot  the  quick  development  which  even  a  few  weeks 
bring  at  such  a  time  of  life.  He  set  all  the  difference  down 
to  the  fact  that  never  before  had  he  looked  for  what  he 
now  found  so  ready  and  so  obvious.  Anything  he  did  not 
find  for  himself  the  nurse  was  eager  to  point  out,  and  with 
the  aid  of  this  enthusiastic  signpost  Grantley  discovered 
the  road  to  understanding  very  readily.  He  and  the  boy 
were,  without  doubt,  enjoying  one  another's  society  when 
Sibylla  came  in. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  waiting  with  an  aching  heart 
for  the  usual  thing,  for  a  withdrawal  of  even  such  sign  of 
interest  as  Grantley  had  ever  shown  in  old  days.  It  did 
not  come.  He  gave  her  a  cheery  recognition,  and  went  on 
playing  with  Frank.  Irresistibly  drawn,  she  came  near  to 
them.  Something  was  signalled  in  Frank's  struggling 
speech  and  impatiently  waving  arms.  Grantley  could  not 
follow,  and  now  turned  his  eyes  to  Sibylla,  asking  for  an 
explanation.  The  nurse  had  gone  into  the  other  room, 
busied  about  the  preparations  for  the  meal.  Sibylla  took 
Frank  in  her  arms. 


FRIENDS  331 

"I  know  what  he  means,"  she  said  proudly. 

Her  eyes  met  Grantley's.  His  were  fixed  very  intently 
on  her. 

"I  don't,"  he  said.  "Is  it  possible  for  a  man  to  learn 
these  mysteries?" 

His  tone  and  words  were  light;  they  were  even  mock- 
ing, but  not  now  with  the  mockery  which  hurts. 

She  flushed  a  little. 

"You'd  like  to  learn?"  she  asked.  "Shall  we  try  to 
teach  him,  Frank — to  teach  him  your  code?" 

"I'll  watch  you  with  him." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  appealingly,  and  then 
knelt  on  the  floor  and  arranged  the  toys  as  Frank  had 
wanted  them.     The  little  fellow  laughed  in  triumph. 

"How  did  you  know?"  asked  Grantley. 

"I've  not  lost  that  knowledge — no,  I  haven't,"  she  an- 
swered almost  in  a  whisper. 

The  scene  was  a  spur  to  his  newly  stirred  impulses.  He 
had  rejoiced  in  his  wife  before  now;  but  the  clouds  had 
always  hung  about  the  cot,  so  that  he  had  not  rejoiced  nor 
gloried  in  the  mother  of  his  child.  His  heart  was  full  as 
he  sat  and  watched  the  mother  and  the  child. 

"You've  got  to  watch  him  very  carefully  still;  but  he's 
getting  ever  so  much  more — more " 

"Lucid?"  Grantley  suggested,  smiling. 

"Yes,"  she  laughed,  "and,  if  possible,  more  imperious 
still.     I  believe  he's  going  to  be  like  you  in  that." 

"Oh,  not  like  me,  let's  hope !" 

He  laughed,  but  there  was  a  look  of  pain  on  his  face. 

Sibylla  turned  round  to  him  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice, 
lest  by  chance  the  nurse  should  hear. 

"You  mustn't  be  sure  I  agree  altogether  with  that,"  she 
said,  and  turned  swiftly  away  to  the  child  again. 

Grantley  rose. 


332  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"Lift  him  up  to  me  and  let  me  kiss  him,"  he  said. 
With  grave  eyes  Sibylla  obeyed. 

But  the  natural  man  is  not  easily  subdued,  nor  does  he 
yield  his  place  readily.  In  the  end  Grantley  was  not  apt  at 
explanations  or  apologies.  The  evening  fell  fair  and  still, 
a  fine  October  night,  and  he  joined  Sibylla  in  the  garden. 
Christine  remained  inside — from  tact  perhaps,  though 
she  was  very  likely  chilly  too.  Grantley  smoked  in  silence, 
while  Sibylla  looked  down  on  the  little  village  below. 

"This  thing  has  shaken  me  up  dreadfully,"  he  said  at 
last.     "The  Courtlands,  I  mean." 

"Yes,  I  know."  She  turned  and  faced  him.  "And  isn't 
there  something  else  that  concerns  you  and  me?" 

"I  know  of  nothing.  And  you  can  hardly  say  the  Court- 
lands  concern  us  exactly." 

"They  do;  and  there  is  something  else,  Grantley.     I 
know  what  Janet  Selford  wrote." 
"That's  nothing  at  all  to  me." 
"But  it  is  something  to  me.    You  know  it  is." 
"I  won't  talk  of  that.     It's  nothing."     He  put  his  hand 
out  suddenly  to  her.     'Let's  be  friends,  Sibylla." 

She  did  not  take  his  hand,  but  she  looked  at  him  with 
a  friendly  gaze. 

"We  really  ought  to  try  to  manage  that,  oughtn't  we? 
For  Frank's  sake,  if  for  nothing  else.  Or  do  you  think 
I've  no  right  to  talk  about  Frank?" 

"Suppose  we  don't  talk  about  rights  at  all?  I'm  not 
anxious  to." 

"It'll  be  hard;  but  we'll  try  to  be  friends  for  his  sake — 
that  he  may  have  a  happy  home." 

Grantley's  heart  was  stirred  within  him. 
"That's  good;  but  is  that  all?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice 
full  of  feeling.     "Is  it  all  over  for  ourselves?     Can't  we 
be  friends  for  our  own  sakes?" 


FRIENDS  333 

"Haven't  we  lost — well,  not  the  right — if  you  don't 
like  that — but  the  power?" 

"I'm  an  obstinate  man;  you  know  that  very  well." 

"It'll  be  hard — for  both  of  us;  but,  yes,  we'll  try." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  to  bind  the  bargain;  he  gripped 
it  with  an  intensity  that  surprised  and  alarmed  her.  She 
could  see  his  eyes  through  the  gloom.  Were  they  asking 
friendship  only?  There  was  more  than  that  in  his  heart 
and  in  his  eyes — a  thing  never  dead  in  him.  It  had 
sprung  to  fresh  vigour  now,  from  the  lessons  of  calamity, 
from  the  pity  born  in  him,  from  the  new  eyes  with  which 
he  had  looked  on  the  boy  in  his  mother's  arms.  She 
could  not  miss  the  expression  of  it. 

"Is  that  the  best  we  can  try  for?"  he  whispered. 
"There  was  something  else  once,  Sibylla." 

He  had  not  moved,  yet  she  raised  her  hands  as  though 
to  check  or  beat  off  his  approach.  She  was  afraid.  All 
that  the  path  he  again  beckoned  her  on  had  meant  to 
her  came  to  her  mind.  If  she  followed  him  along  it, 
would  it  not  be  once  more  to  woo  disillusion,  to  court 
disaster,  to  invite  that  awful  change  to  bitterness  and 
hatred? 

"You  are  you,  and  I  am  I,"  she  protested.  "It — it  is 
impossible,  Grantley." 

His  face  assumed  its  old  obstinate  squareness  as  he 
heard  her. 

"I  don't  want  that,"  she  murmured.  "I'll  try  to  be 
friends.  We  can  understand  one  another  as  friends,  make 
allowances,  give  and  forgive.  Friendship's  charitable. 
Let's  be  friends,  Grantley." 

"You  have  no  love  left  for  me?"  he  asked,  passing  by 
her  protests. 

"For  months  past  I've  hated  you." 

"I  know  that.    And  you  have  no  love  left  for  me?" 


334  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

She  looked  at  him  again,  with  fear  and  shrinking  in  her 
eyes. 

"Have  you  forgotten  what  I  did?  No,  you  can't  have 
forgotten !  How  can  you  wish  me  to  love  you  now  ?  It 
would  be  horrible  for  both  of  us.  You  may  forgive  me, 
as  I  do  you — what  I  may  have  to  forgive;  but  how  can 
we  be  lovers  again  ?    How  can  we — with  that  in  the  past  ?" 

"The  past  is  the  past,"  he  said  calmly. 

She  walked  away  from  him  a  little.  When  she  came 
back  in  a  minute  or  so,  he  saw  that  she  was  in  strong  agi- 
tation. 

"That's  enough  to-night — enough  for  all  time,  if  you 
so  wish,"  he  said  gently.  "Only  I  had  to  tell  you  what 
was  in  my  heart." 

"How  could  you,  Grantley?" 

"I  haven't  said  it  was  easy.  I'm  coming  to  believe  that 
the  easy  things  aren't  worth  much." 

"You  could  love  me  again?" 

"I've  never  ceased  to  love  you — only  I  hope  I  know  a 
bit  more  about  how  to  do  it  now." 

She  stood  there,  the  picture  of  distress  and  of  fear.  At 
last  she  broke  out : 

"Ah,  I've  not  told  you  the  real  thing!  I'm  afraid, 
Grantley,  I'm  afraid!  I  dare  not  love  you.  Because  I 
loved  you  so  beyond  all  reason  and  all — all  sanity,  all  this 
came  upon  us.  And — and  I  daren't  love  you  again  now, 
even  if  I  could.  Yes,  I  ought  to  have  learnt  something 
too;  perhaps  I  have.  But  I  daren't  trust  myself  with  my 
knowledge."  She  came  a  step  nearer  to  him,  holding  out 
her  hands  beseechingly.  "Friends,  friends,  Grantley!" 
she  implored.  "Then  we  shall  be  safe.  And  our  love 
shall  be  for  Frank.  You'll  get  to  love  Frank,  won't 
you?" 

"Frank  and  I  are  beginning  to  hit  it  off  capitally,"  said 


FRIENDS  335 

Grantley  cheerfully.  "Well,  I  shall  go  in  now :  we  mustn't 
leave  Christine  alone  all  the  evening."  He  took  her  hand 
and  kissed  it.    "So  we're  friends?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  try,"  she  faltered.  "Yes,  surely  we  can  manage 
that!" 

He  turned  away  and  left  her  again  gazing  down  on  the 
village  and  Old  Mill  House.  He  lounged  into  the  draw- 
ing-room where  Christine  sat,  with  an  easy  air  and  a  smile 
on  his  face. 

"A  beautiful  evening,  isn't  it?"  asked  Christine  with  a 
tiny  shudder,  as  she  hitched  her  chair  closer  to  the  bit  of 
bright  fire  and  threw  a  faintly  protesting  glance  at  the  open 
window. 

"Beautiful  weather — and  quite  settled.  I  shall  enjoy 
my  holiday  down  here." 

"Oh,  you're  going  to  stay  down  here,  and  going  to  have 
a  holiday,  are  you?"  she  asked  with  a  lift  of  her  brows. 

"Well,  hardly  a  holiday,  after  all.  I've  got  a  job  to 
do,"  he  answered  as  he  lit  his  cigarette.  "Rather  a  hard 
job  at  my  time  of  life." 

"Is  it?    What  is  the  job?" 

"I'm  going  courting  again — and  a  very  pretty  woman 
too,"  he  said. 

A  rather  tremulous  smile  came  on  Christine's  face  as 
she  looked  at  him. 

"It's  rather  a  nice  amusement,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 
"And  you  always  had  plenty  of  self-conceit." 

"Why,  hang  it,  I  thought  it  was  just  the  opposite  this 
time !"  exclaimed  Grantley  in  whimsical  annoyance. 

Christine  laughed. 

"I  won't  be  unamiable.  I'll  call  it  self-confidence,  if 
you  insist." 

He  took  a  moment  to  think  over  her  new  word. 

"Yes,  in  the  end  I  suppose  it  does  come  to  that.    Look 


336  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

here,  Christine;  I  wish  the  people  who  tell  you  you  ought 
to  change  your  nature  would  be  obliging  enough  to  tell 
you  how  to  do  it." 

Christine's  answer  might  be  considered  encouraging. 

"After  all  there's  no  need  to  overdo  the  change,"  she 
said.  "And  there's  one  thing  in  which  you'll  never  change : 
you'll  always  want  the  best  there  is." 

"No  harm  in  having  a  try  for  it — as  soon  as  you  really 
see  it,"  he  answered,  as  he  strolled  off  to  the  smoking- 
room. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FIVE 

PICKING   UP   THE    PIECES 

MRS.  BOLTON  was  very  much  upset  by  what  had 
happened  at  the  Courtlands'.  An  unwonted 
and  irksome  sense  of  responsibility  oppressed 
her.  She  discussed  the  matter  with  Miss  Henderson  and 
made  Caylesham  come  to  see  her — Miss  Pattie  Hender- 
son who  knew  all  about  how  Sophy's  letter  had  reached 
her  mother's  hands,  and  Caylesham  whom  Mrs.  Bolton 
had  made  a  party  to  the  joke.  It  did  not  seem  so  good  a 
joke  now.  She  and  Pattie  were  both  frightened  when  they 
saw  to  what  their  pleasantry  had  led.  Little  Sophy's  suf- 
fering was  not  agreeable  to  think  of,  and  there  was  an 
uncomfortable  uncertainty  about  the  manner  of  Harriet's 
death.  A  scheme  may  prove  too  successful  sometimes. 
Caylesham  had  warned  Mrs.  Bolton  that  she  was  playing 
with  dangerous  tools.  He  was  not  now  inclined  to  let  her 
down  too  easily,  nor  to  put  the  kindest  interpretation  on 
the  searchings  of  her  conscience. 

"You  always  time  your  fits  of  morality  so  well,"  he  ob- 
served cynically.  "I  don't  suppose  poor  old  Tom's  amus- 
ing company  just  now,  and  he's  certainly  deuced  hard  up." 

Mrs.  Bolton  looked  a  very  plausible  picture  of  injured 
innocence,  but  of  course  there  was  something  in  what 
Frank  Caylesham  said;  there  generally  was,  though  it 
might  not  be  what  you  would  be  best  pleased  to  find. 
Tom  was  not  lively  nor  inclined  for  gaiety;  and  he  had 
just  made  a  composition  with  his  creditors.  On  the  other 
hand,  Miss  Henderson  was  in  funds  (having  completed 
her  negotiations  with  the  Parmenter  family) ,  and  had  sug- 
gested a  winter  on  the  Riviera,  with  herself  for  hostess. 

337 


338  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

There  are,  fortunately,  moments  when  the  good  and  the 
pleasant  coincide;  the  worst  of  it  is  that  such  happy  har- 
monies are  apt  to  come  rather  late  in  the  day. 

"It's  all  different  now  that  woman's  gone,"  observed 
Mrs.  Bolton.     "It's  the  children  now,  Frank." 

"Supposing  it  is,  why  am  I  to  be  dragged  into  it?" 

"We  must  get  him  to  go  back  to  them." 

Various  feelings  combined  to  make  Mrs.  Bolton  very 
earnest. 

"He  wants  to  stay  here,  does  he?" 

"No,  he  hates  being  here  now.  Yes,  he  does.  He 
only  comes  because  he's  got  nobody  else  to  speak  to.  And 
he's  in  awful  dumps  all  the  time.  It's  not  very  cheerful 
for  me." 

"I  daresay  not,  Flora.  But  why  doesn't  he  go  back 
then?" 

Mrs.  Bolton  had  been  moving  about  the  room  restlessly. 
Her  back  was  to  Caylesham  as  she  answered : 

"He  won't.     He  says  he  can't.     He  says " 

Caylesham  threw  a  glance  at  her,  his  brows  raised. 

"What  does  he  say,  Flora?" 

"Oh,  it's  nonsense — and  he  needn't  say  it  to  me,  any- 
how. It  really  isn't  particularly  pleasant  for  me.  Oh, 
well,  then,  he  says  he's  not  fit  to  go  near  them."  She 
turned  round  to  him;  there  was  a  flush  on  her  face.  "Such 
nonsense !"  she  ended  impatiently. 

Caylesham  pulled  his  moustache,  and  smiled  reflectively. 

"I  suppose  it  might  take  him  like  that,"  he  observed 
with  an  impartial  air. 

"Oh,  I  know  you're  only  laughing  at  me!  But  I  tell 
you,  I  don't  like  it,  Frank." 

"These  little  incidents  are — well,  incidental,  Flora.  In- 
nocent children,  you  know  I  And  I  shouldn't  be  surprised 
if  he  even  made  excuses  for  Harriet  now?" 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES  339 

"No,  he  doesn't  do  that.  It's  the  children.  Stop  smil- 
ing like  that,  will  you?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear  Flora.  My  smile  was  a  pure  over- 
sight." 

"It  was  all  I  could  do  to  get  him  to  go  to  the  funeral. 
Do  you  think  she  killed  herself,  Frank?" 

"I've  not  the  least  intention  of  examining  the  question. 
What  can  it  matter?" 

Mrs.  Bolton  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently.  It 
did  seem  to  her  to  matter,  but  she  would  not  let  Cayle- 
sham  think  that  it  mattered  much.  She  returned  to  her 
point  about  the  children. 

"He's  miserable  thinking  about  them,  and  yet  he  won't 
go  near  them.     I  call  it  idiotic." 

"So  do  I.     But  then   they  aren't  our  children." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  stand  his  saying  it  again  and 
again  to  me." 

"I  really  agree.  There  can't  be  any  reason  for  saying 
such  a  thing  more  than  once." 

She  broke  into  a  vexed  laugh. 

"When  you've  had  all  the  fun  you  can  get  out  of  me, 
perhaps  you'll  begin  to  help  me.  You  see,  I  want  it  set- 
tled.    I  want  to  be  off  to  Monte  with  Pattie." 

"I  see.    You  want  to  go  with  Pattie  and " 

Mrs.  Bolton  shook  her  head. 

"Just  you  and  Pattie?" 

"She's  going  to  stand  it  to  me:  I  haven't  got  a  farthing. 
And,  I  say,  Frank,  he  ought  to  go  back  to  those  poor  little 
wretches  now.  You  can  make  him  do  it  if  you  like,  you 
know." 

"I?    Well,  I'm  an  odd  sort  of  party  for  such  a  job." 

"Not  a  bit.  He'll  listen  to  you  just  because — well,  be- 
cause  " 

"I  haven't  spared  your  feelings,  Flora,  don't  mind 
mine." 


34o  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"Because  he  knows  you  don't  talk  humbug  or  cant." 

"You're  being  complimentary  after  all — or  at  any  rate 
you're  meaning  to  be.     And  you'd  never  see  him  again?" 

"He'll  never  want  to  see  me."  She  was  facing  Cayle- 
sham  now.  "I've  been  fond  of  poor  old  Tom.  Come, 
you  know  I  have?     Say  that  for  me." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  have.  I've  reproved  you  for  it  my- 
self." 

"But  he'll  not  want  to  see  me — and  soon  I  shan't  want 
to  see  him  either." 

She  looked  a  little  distressed  for  a  minute,  then  shrugged 
her  shoulders  with  a  laugh: 

"That's  the  way  of  the  world." 

"Of  part  of  it,"  Caylesham  murmured  as  he  lit  a  cigar. 

But  he  was  really  sorry  for  Mrs.  Bolton.  Notwith- 
standing a  notable  mixture  of  motives,  in  which  the  condi- 
tion of  her  purse  and  the  opportunity  of  going  to  the  Ri- 
viera figured  largely,  she  was  grieved  at  the  way  in  which 
her  friendship  with  Tom  was  ending — grieved  that  it  must 
end,  and  hurt  that  Tom  should  desire  to  have  it  ended. 
She  had  always  suffered  from  this  unfortunate  tendency 
to  kindly  emotions  which  the  exigencies  of  her  position  did 
not  permit  her  to  indulge.  Indeed  it  was  very  likely  the 
kindly  emotions  which  had  originally  produced  the  posi- 
tion. That  did  not  make  the  matter  any  better;  the  ulti- 
mate incongruity  was  none  the  less  undesirable.  With  his 
indifference  to  accepted  codes,  Caylesham  thought  it  rather 
lamentable  too.  Still  she  did  want,  above  all  things,  to  go 
to  the  Riviera  with  Pattie  Henderson.  One  must  com- 
promise with  life,  and  it  was  not  clear  that  she  was  getting 
the  worst  of  the  bargain. 

With  Flora  Bolton  set  aside  (and  of  course  she  had  no 
reasonable  title  to  consideration),  the  case  seemed  a  simple 
one  to  Caylesham,  and  his  mission  an  obvious  utterance 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES  341 

of  common  sense.  He  could  not  enter  fully  into  Tom 
Courtland's  mind.  Tom  was  not  naturally  a  lawless 
man;  desperation  had  made  him  break  loose.  The  by- 
gone desperation  was  forgotten  now  in  pity  for  his  chil- 
dren and  for  the  woman  whom,  after  all,  he  had  once 
loved;  and  he  looked  with  shame  on  the  thing  he  had 
done,  attributing  to  it  all  the  results  which  Harriet's 
fury  had  engrafted  on  it.  Broken  in  fortune  and  in 
career,  broken  too  in  self-respect,  he  had  been  likely  to 
drift  on  in  a  life  which  he  had  come  to  abhor.  He  felt 
his  presence  an  outrage  on  his  children.  If  the  death  of 
his  wife  had  seemed  to  save  him  from  a  due  punishment, 
here  was  a  penalty  different  but  hardly  less  severe.  While 
he  was  in  this  mood  Caylesham  was  the  best  man  to  carry 
the  message  to  him.  The  only  chance  with  Tom  was  to 
treat  what  he  had  done  as  natural,  but  to  insist  that  the 
sequence  of  events  was  utterly  unexpected  and  essentially 
unconnected  with  it.  To  urge  the  gravity  of  his  offence 
would  have  been  to  make  reparation  and  atonement  im- 
possible. Caylesham  took  a  very  strong  and  simple  line. 
He  declined  to  discuss  the  state  of  Tom's  conscience,  or 
the  blackness  of  Tom's  mind,  or  even  the  whiteness  of 
the  minds  of  the  children.  Everybody  was  very  much 
alike,  or  would  be  in  a  few  years  anyhow,  and  Tom  was 
not  to  be  an  ass.  The  line  of  argument  was  not  exalted, 
but  it  was  adapted  to  the  needs  of  the  case. 

"My  dear  chap,  if  you  come  to  that,  what  man  is  fit  to 
look  his  children  in  the  face?"  he  asked  impatiently. 

But  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  idealising — a 
thing  he  hated. 

"Not  that  children  aren't  often  wicked  little  beggars 
themselves,"  he  added  cheerfully.  "They  steal  and  lie 
like  anything,  and  torment  one  another  devilishly.  I  know 
I  did  things  as  a  boy  that  I'd  kick  any  grown  man  for 


342  DOUULL    HARNESS 

doing,  and  so  did  my  brothers  and  sisters.  I  tell  you  what 
it  is,  Tom,  the  devil's  there  all  the  time ;  he  shows  himself 
in  different  ways — that's  all." 

Tom  could  not  swallow  this  gospel;  he  would  give  up 
neither  his  own  iniquity  nor  the  halo  of  purity  to  which 
his  mind  clung  amid  the  sordid  ruin  of  his  life  and  home. 

"If  I  could  pull  straight — "  he  murmured  despairingly. 

"Why  shouldn't  you?  You're  getting  on  in  life,  you 
know,  after  all." 

"They — they  guess  something  about  it,  I  expect,  Frank. 
It's  not  pleasant  for  a  man  to  be  ashamed  before  his  own 
children.  And  Miss  Bligh — I  thought  she  looked  at  me 
very  queerly  at  the  funeral." 

"You'll  find  they'll  be  as  nice  as  possible  to  you.  The 
children  won't  understand  anything,  and  Suzette's  sure  to 
be  on  your  side.  Women  always  are,  you  know.  They're 
not  naturally  moral — we've  imposed  it  on  them,  and  they 
always  like  to  get  an  excuse  for  approving  of  the  other 
thing." 

Tom  grew  savage. 

"I  know  what  I've  done,  but  anyhow  I'm  glad  I  don't 
think  as  you  do." 

"Never  mind  my  thoughts,  old  chap.  You  go  home  to 
your  kids,"  said  Caylesham  cheerfully. 

He  was  very  good-humoured  over  the  matter;  neither 
all  the  unnecessary  fuss  nor  Tom's  aspersions  on  his  own 
character  and  views  disturbed  him  in  the  least;  and  he  did 
not  leave  Tom  until  he  had  obtained  the  assurance  that 
he  desired.  This  given,  he  went  off  to  his  club,  thanking 
heaven  that  he  was  quit  of  a  very  tiresome  business.  If 
he  did  his  bad  deeds  without  misgiving,  he  did  his  good 
without  arrogance;  perhaps  they  were  not  numerous 
enough  to  give  that  feeling  a  plausible  excuse  for  emer- 
gence. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES  343 

"It's  all  right,"  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Bolton  in  reporting 
his  success.  "I  made  him  promise  not  to  be  an  ass.  So 
you  can  go  off  with  Pattie  with  a  mind  free  of  care.  Good 
luck  to  you,  and  lots  of  plunder!" 

The  immoral  friendliness  of  this  wish  for  her  success 
quite  touched  Mrs.  Bolton. 

"Frank's  a  really  good-hearted  fellow,"  she  told  Miss 
Henderson  as  she  settled  herself  in  the  train  and  started 
on  her  journey,  the  fortunes  of  which  it  is  not  necessary  to 
follow. 

For  days  Lucy  and  little  Vera  had  crept  fearfully 
through  the  silent  house,  knowing  that  a  dreadful  thing 
had  happened,  not  allowed  to  put  questions,  and  hardly 
daring  to  speculate  about  it  themselves.  When  Sophy 
began  to  be  about  again,  pale  and  shaken,  with  the 
bandage  still  round  her  head,  she  took  the  lead  as  she  was 
wont  to  do,  and  her  bolder  mind  fastened  on  the  change  in 
the  situation.  There  was  no  need  to  be  afraid  any  more: 
that  was  the  great  fact  which  came  home  to  her,  and  which 
she  proclaimed  to  her  sisters.  It  might  be  proper  to  move 
quietly  and  talk  low  for  a  little  while,  but  it  was  a  tribute 
to  what  was  becoming,  not  a  sign  of  terror  or  a  precaution 
against  danger.  It  was  Sophy  too  who  ventured  to  ques- 
tion Suzette,  and  to  elicit  instructions  as  to  their  future 
conduct.  They  were  to  think  very  kindly  of  mamma  and 
love  her  memory,  said  Suzette,  but  they  were  not  to  talk 
about  her  to  papa  when  he  came  back,  because  that  would 
distress  him.  And  they  were  not  to  ask  him  why  he  had 
gone  away,  or  where  he  had  been.  Of  course  he  had  had 
business;  and,  anyhow,  little  girls  ought  not  to  be  inquisi- 
tive. A  question  remained  in  Sophy's  mind,  and  was  even 
canvassed  in  private  school-room  consultations.  What 
about  that  portentous  word  which  had  been  whispered 
through  the  household — what  about  the  divorce?     None 


344  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

of  them  found  courage  to  ask  that,  or  perhaps  they  had 
pity  on  poor  Suzette  Bligh,  who  was  so  terribly  uncom- 
fortable under  their  questioning.  At  any  rate  nothing 
more  was  heard  about  the  divorce.  Since  it  had  appeared 
to  mean  that  papa  was  to  go  away,  and  since  he  was  com- 
ing back  now,  presumably  it  had  been  put  on  the  shelf 
somehow.  All  the  same,  their  sharp  instincts  told  them 
that  their  father  would  not  have  come  back  unless  their 
mother  had  died,  and  that  he  was  coming  back  now — well, 
in  a  sort  of  disgrace;  that  was  how  they  put  it  in  their 
thoughts. 

A  committee  consisting  of  Kate  Raymore,  Janet  Selford, 
and  John  Fanshaw  (a  trustee  under  the  Courtland  mar- 
riage settlement,  and  so  possessing  a  status),  had  sat  to 
consider  Suzette  Bligh's  position.  Suzette  loved  the  chil- 
dren, and  it  would  be  sad  if  she  had  to  leave  them;  more- 
over she  was  homeless,  and  a  fixed  salary  would  be  wel- 
come to  her.  Lastly — and  on  this  point  Janet  Selford  laid 
stress — she  was  not  exactly  a  girl;  she  was  just  on  thirty. 
John  nodded  agreement,  adding  that  nobody  outside  of 
an  asylum  could  connect  scandal  with  the  name  of  Suzette 
Bligh.  So  it  was  decided  that  she  should  stay,  for  the  pres- 
ent at  all  events,  in  the  capacity  of  companion  or  govern- 
ess. The  children  wondered  to  find  Suzette  so  gently  radi- 
ant and  affectionate  one  evening.  She  had  not  told  them 
of  the  doubt  which  had  arisen,  nor  how  great  a  thing  it 
was  to  her  to  stay.  They  had  never  doubted  that  she 
would  stay  with  them  now. 

It  was  late  one  afternoon  when  Tom  Courtland  slunk 
home.  He  had  sent  no  word  of  his  coming,  because  he 
did  not  know  till  the  last  minute  whether  he  would  have 
courage  to  come.  Then  he  had  made  the  plunge,  given  up 
his  room  at  the  club,  packed  his  luggage,  and  left  it  to  be 
called  for.     But  the  plunge  was  very  difficult  to  him — 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES  345 

so  that  his  weak  will  would  not  have  faced  it  unless  that 
other  door  at  Mrs.  Bolton's  had  been  firmly  shut  in  his 
face.  He  was  uncomfortable  before  the  man  who  let  him 
in;  he  was  wretchedly  apprehensive  of  Suzette  Bligh  and 
of  the  children.  He  needed — very  badly  needed — Cayle- 
sham  at  his  elbow  again,  to  tell  him  "not  to  be  an  ass." 
But  Caylesham  had  gone  back  to  employments  more  con- 
genial than  he  ever  professed  to  find  works  of  benevolence. 
Tom  had  to  endure  alone,  and  he  could  find  no  comfort. 
Against  Harriet  he  could  have  made  a  case — a  very  good 
case  in  the  judgment  of  half  the  world.  But  he  seemed 
to  have  no  excuse  to  offer  to  the  little  girls,  nor  any  plea 
to  meet  the  wondering  disapprobation  of  Suzette  Bligh. 

He  was  told  that  the  children  were  in  the  schoolroom 
with  Suzette,  and  thither  he  bent  his  steps,  going  slowly 
and  indecisively.  He  stopped  outside  the  door  and  list- 
ened. He  could  hear  Suzette's  mild  voice;  apparently 
she  was  reading  to  them,  for  nothing  except  the  continu- 
ous flow  of  her  words  was  audible,  and  in  conversation 
she  was  not  so  loquacious  as  that.  Well,  he  must  go  in; 
perhaps  it  would  be  all  right  when  once  the  ice  was  broken. 
He  opened  the  door  and  stood  on  the  threshold,  blushing 
like  a  schoolboy. 

"Well,  my  dears,  here  I  am,"  he  said.  "I've  come 
home." 

He  caught  Suzette's  eye.  She  was  blushing  too,  blush- 
ing a  very  vivid  pink — rather  a  foolish  pink  somehow. 
He  felt  that  both  he  and  Suzette  were  looking  very 
silly.  For  quite  a  long  time,  as  it  seemed,  he  looked  at 
Suzette  before  he  looked  at  the  little  girls.  After  that 
there  was,  or  seemed  to  be,  another  long  silence  while  the 
little  girls  looked  first  at  him,  then  at  Suzette,  then  at  one 
another.  Tom  stood  there  through  it  all — in  the  door- 
way, blushing. 


346  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

The  next  moment  all  the  three  were  upon  him,  clinging 
to  his  hands  and  his  coat,  kissing  him,  crying  out  their 
gladness  in  little  excited  exclamations,  the  two  elder  taking 
care  to  give  Vera  a  fair  chance  to  get  at  him,  Vera  insist- 
ing that  the  chance  was  not  a  fair  one,  all  the  three  drag- 
ging him  to  an  armchair,  and  sitting  him  down  in  it.  Two 
of  them  got  on  his  knees,  and  Lucy  stood  by  his  side  with 
her  arm  round  his  neck. 

"My  dears!"  Tom  muttered,  and  found  he  could  say 
no  more. 

His  eyes  met  Suzette  Bligh's.  She  was  standing  by  the 
table,  looking  on,  and  her  eyes  were  misty. 

"See  how  they  love  you,  Mr.  Courtland!"  she  said. 

Yes !  And  he  had  forsaken  them,  and  the  bandage  was 
about  Sophy's  head. 

"You  won't  go  away  again,  will  you?"  implored  Lucy. 

"No,  I  shan't  go  away  again." 

"And  Suzette'll  stay  too,  won't  she?"  urged  Vera. 

"I  hope  she  will,  indeed !" 

"You  will,  Suzette?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"We  shall  be  happy,"  said  Sophy  softly,  with  a  note 
of  wonder  in  her  voice. 

It  really  seemed  strange  to  have  the  prospect  of  being 
happy — permanently,  comfortably,  without  fear;  the  pros- 
pect of  happiness  not  snatched  at  intervals,  not  broken  by 
terror,  but  secure  and  without  apprehension. 

Tom  Courtland  pressed  his  little  children  to  him. 
Where  were  the  reproaches  he  had  imagined,  where  the 
shame  he  had  feared?  They  were  annihilated  by  love 
and  swallowed  up  in  gladness. 

"We  do  love  you  so  I"  whispered  Lucy. 

Vera  actually  screamed  in  happiness. 

"Oh,  Vera  1"  said  Suzette,  rather  shocked. 


PICKING  UP  THE   PIECES  347 

That  set  them  all  laughing,  the  little  girls,  Tom,  pres- 
ently even  Suzette  herself.  They  were  all  laughing, 
though  none  of  them  could  have  told  exactly  why.  Their 
joy  bubbled  over  in  mirth,  and  the  sound  of  gladness  was 
in  the  house.  Tom  Courtland  held  his  head  up  and  was 
his  own  man  again.  Here  was  something  to  live  for,  and 
something  to  show  that  even  his  broken  life  had  not  been 
lived  in  vain.  The  ghosts  of  the  past  were  there ;  he  could 
not  forget  them.  But  the  clasp  of  the  warm  little  arms 
which  encircled  him  would  keep  their  chilling  touch  away 
from  his  heart.  Freed  from  torments  that  he  had  not  de- 
served, rescued  from  pleasures  that  he  had  not  enjoyed, 
he  turned  eagerly  to  the  delights  of  his  home  which  could 
now  be  his.  His  glad  children  and  kindly  Suzette  were  a 
picture  very  precious  in  his  eyes.  Here  were  golden  links 
by  which  the  fragments  of  his  life  could  be  bound  together, 
though  the  fractures  must  always  show — even  as  the  scar 
would  show  always  on  Sophy's  brow,  however  much  her 
lips  might  smile  or  her  eyes  sparkle  beneath  it. 

They  were  roused  by  a  voice  from  the  door. 

"It's  not  hard  to  tell  where  you  all  are !  Why,  I  heard 
you  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs !    What  a  hullabaloo  I" 

John  Fanshaw's  bulky  figure  stood  there,  solid  and 
bowed  with  weight  and  his  growing  years.  He  looked  on 
the  scene — on  the  happy  little  folk  in  their  gloomy  black 
frocks — with  a  kindly  smile,  and  the  mock  reproof  of  his 
tone  hid  more  tenderness  than  he  cared  to  show. 

"Papa's  come  back — back  to  stay !"  they  cried  exultant- 
ly.   "Isn't  that  splendid,  Mr.  Fanshaw?" 

"I  hoped  I  should  find  you  here,  Tom;  but  I  came  to 
call  on  Miss  Bligh." 

"I  hope  you'll  always  find  her  here  too,"  said  Tom. 

Suzette  was  flattered,  and  fell  to  blushing  again.  She 
was  acutely  grateful  to  anybody  who  wanted  her.     She 


348  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

took  such  a  desire  as  a  free  and  lavish  gift  of  kindness, 

never  making  out  any  reason  which  could  account  for  it. 

"I'm  only  too  happy  to  stay  if — if  I  can  be  of  any  use," 
she  murmured. 

John  sat  down  and  made  one  of  the  party.  They  all 
chattered  cheerfully  till  the  hour  grew  late.  Sophy,  still 
treated  as  an  invalid,  had  to  go  to  bed.  She  kissed  John, 
who  held  her  closely  for  a  moment;  then  threw  herself 
in  Tom's  arms,  and  could  hardly  be  persuaded  to  let  him 

go. 

"I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Imason  and  tell  him  youVe  come 
back,"  she  whispered  as  a  great  secret.  "He  was  so  kind 
to  Lucy  and  Vera  when —    You  know,  papa  ?" 

Tom  passed  his  hand  over  her  flaxen  hair. 

"Sleep  quietly,  darling,"  he  said.  For  quiet  and  peace 
were  possible  now. 

There  had  been  no  expectation  that  Tom  would  be  home 
to  dinner;  and  though  Suzette  assured  him  that  something 
could  easily  be  prepared  (and  that  homely  sort  of  atten- 
tion was  new  and  pleasant  to  Tom),  he  accepted  John 
Fanshaw's  invitation  to  take  pot-luck  with  him.  They 
walked  off  together,  rather  silent,  each  full  of  his  own 
thoughts.  They  did  not  speak  until  they  had  almost 
reached  John's  door. 

"That's  the  sort  of  sight  that  makes  a  man  wish  he  had 
children,"  said  John  slowly. 

"I've  often  wished  I  had  none.     Poor  Harriet!" 

"But  you're  glad  of  them  now?" 

"Why,  I've  nothing  else !  It  just  makes  the  difference 
to  life."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  broke  out :  "And 
they've  nothing  but  love  for  me.  Not  a  word,  not  a 
thought  of  reproach !  Just  because  I've  never  been  cruel 
to  them,  whatever  else  I've  been!  Poor  little  beggars! 
We  can't  keep  like  that  when  we  grow  up.  We're  too 
fond  of  our  grievances,  eh?" 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES  349 

John  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  but  said  nothing. 
They  went  into  the  house  in  renewed  silence.  It  seemed 
very  large,  empty,  and  dreary. 

"Your  wife  not  back  yet?  I  heard  she  was  staying  with 
the  Imasons." 

"She's  there  still.  I  don't  know  when  she's  coming 
back." 

"Rather  dull  for  you,  isn't  it?  You  know  you  always 
depended  on  her  a  lot." 

John  made  no  answer,  but  led  the  way  into  his  study. 
He  gave  Tom  an  evening  paper,  and  began  to  open  his 
letters.  But  his  thoughts  were  not  on  the  letters.  They 
were  occupied  with  what  he  had  seen  that  afternoon  and 
with  the  words  which  had  fallen  from  Tom  Courtland's 
lips.  The  children  forgave  with  that  fine  free  forgiveness 
which  will  not  even  recognise  the  need  for  itself  or  the 
existence  of  any  fault  toward  which  it  should  be  exercised. 
It  is  there  that  forgiveness  rises  to  and  is  merged  in  love. 
But  when  people  grow  up,  Tom  had  said,  they  are  too  fond 
of  their  grievances.  John  had  been  very  fond  of  his  griev- 
ance. It  was  a  fine  large  one — about  the  largest  any  man 
could  have;  everybody  must  admit  that;  and  John  had 
declined  to  belittle  it  or  to  shear  off  an  inch  of  its  imposing 
stature.  All  it  demanded  he  had  given.  But  had  he? 
What  about  Frank  Caylesham's  money?  Had  it  not  de- 
manded there  something  which  he  had  refused?  But  he 
had  given  all  it  asked  so  far  as  the  sinner  who  had  caused 
it  was  concerned.  Against  her  he  had  nursed  and  cosseted 
it;  for  its  sake  he  had  made  his  home  desolate  and  starved 
his  heart.  Aye,  he  had  always  depended  on  Christine! 
Tom  was  right.  But  because  of  his  grievance  he  had  put 
her  from  him.  He  was  fond  of  his  grievance  indeed! 
If  Tom's  children  had  been  old  enough  to  recognise  the 
true  value  and  preciousness  of  a  big  grievance,  they  would 


35o  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

never  have  received  Tom  as  they  had  that  afternoon;  they 
would  have  made  him  feel  what  he  had  been  guilty  of. 
He  would  have  been  made  to  feel  it  handsomely  before  he 
was  forgiven.  Children  were  different,  as  Tom  Court- 
land  said. 

John  got  up  and  poked  the  fire  fiercely. 

"The  house  is  beastly  cold!"  he  grumbled. 

"Ah,  it  wouldn't  be  if  Mrs.  John  was  at  home  I"  laughed 
Tom.    "She  always  looks  after  the  fire,  doesn't  she?" 

John  Fanshaw  bitterly  envied  him  his  peace  and  happi- 
ness. He  forgot  how  hardly  they  had  been  achieved.  The 
vision  of  the  afternoon  was  before  his  eyes,  and  he  de- 
clared that  fate  was  too  kind  to  Tom.  A  heavy  dullness 
was  over  his  face,  and  a  forlorn  puzzled  look  in  his  eyes. 
He  must  have  done  right,  he  must  be  doing  right !  How 
could  a  self-respecting  man  do  otherwise?  And  yet  he  was 
so  desolate,  so  starved  of  human  love,  in  the  end  so  full 
of  longing  for  Christine — for  her  gracious  presence  and 
her  dainty  little  ways. 

With  an  effort  he  collected  his  thoughts  from  these  wan- 
derings, and  began  to  read  his  letters.  Tom  was  still  occu- 
pied with  his  paper  and  his  cigar;  but  he  looked  up  at  the 
sound  of  an  "Ah !"  which  escaped  from  John's  lips.  John 
had  come  on  a  letter  which  set  his  thoughts  going  again — 
a  letter  from  Sibylla.  She  upbraided  him  playfully  for  not 
having  come  down  to  see  them  and  Christine. 

"I'm  sure  Christine  must  be  hurt  with  you,  though  she's 
much  too  proud  to  say  so.  We  want  to  keep  her  over 
Christmas.  Will  you  come  as  soon  as  you  can  and  stay 
over  Christmas  and  as  long  as  possible?  I've  not  told  her 
I'm  asking  you,  so  that  she  mayn't  be  disappointed  if  you 


can't  come." 


There  was  diplomacy  in  Sibylla's  letter,  since  she  knew 
the  state  of  the  case  far  better  than  her  references  to  Chris- 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES  351 

tine  implied.  But  John  was  not  aware  of  this.  His  atten- 
tion was  fixed  only  on  the  invitation  and  on  the  circum- 
stances in  which  it  came.  He  could  not  go  to  Milldean 
and  take  his  grievance  with  him;  it  was  too  big  and  ob- 
trusive for  other  people's  houses — it  could  flourish  proper- 
ly only  in  a  domestic  tete-a-tete.  So  he  must  stay  at  home. 
He  sighed  as  he  laid  down  the  letter.  Then  his  fingers 
wandered  irresolutely  to  it  again  as  he  looked  across  at 
Tom  Courtland,  who  had  now  ceased  reading  and  was 
smoking  with  a  quiet  smile  on  his  face. 

"Anything  up,  old  fellow?"  asked  Tom,  noting  the 
gravity  of  his  expression. 

"No.  It's  only  from  Mrs.  Imason,  asking  me  to  go 
down  there  at  Christmas." 

"You  go!"  counselled  Tom.  "Better  than  bringing 
your  wife  back  here." 

There  was  a  third  course — the  course  favoured  by  the 
grievance.  John  did  not  speak  of  it,  but  it  was  present 
in  his  thoughts.  He  shook  his  head  impatiently,  and  be- 
gan to  talk  of  general  topics;  but  all  the  evening  Sibylla's 
letter  was  in  his  mind,  ranging  itself  side  by  side  with  the 
scene  which  he  had  witnessed  at  Tom  Courtland's. 

The  gloomy  idol  he  had  set  up  in  his  heart  was  not  yet 
cast  down.  But  the  little  hands  of  the  children  had  given 
its  pedestal  a  shake. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-SIX 

THE    GREAT   WRONG 

THE  Raymores  were  lodging  over  the  post-office 
at  Milldean,  in  the  rooms  once  occupied  by  the 
curate.  The  new  curate  did  not  need  them;  he 
was  staying  at  the  rectory,  and  meant,  after  his  marriage 
with  Dora  Hutting,  to  build  himself  a  little  house,  go  on 
being  curate,  and  ultimately  be  rector.  He  had  a  well- 
to-do  father  who  had  bought  the  advowson  for  him  as  a 
wedding  present.  His  path  in  life  was  clear,  visible  to  the 
very  end,  and  entirely  peaceful — unless  Dora  decided 
otherwise.  So  the  rooms  came  in  handy  for  the  Ray- 
mores;  and  it  suited  Jeremy's  inclination  and  leisure  to 
stay  the  while  with  his  sister  on  the  hill.  He  had  a  bit  of 
work  to  finish  down  at  Milldean,  while  the  Raymores  were 
there.  However  assiduous  you  may  be,  love-making  in 
London  is  liable  to  interruption;  it  must  be  to  a  certain 
degree  spasmodic  there:  business,  society,  and  suchlike 
trifles  keep  breaking  in.  A  clear  week  in  the  country  will 
do  wonders.  Thus  thought  Jeremy,  and  it  was  his  bril- 
liant suggestion  which  brought  the  Raymores  to  Milldean 
for  a  month.  What  more  obvious,  since  Charley  was  to 
land  at  Fairhaven  and  to  stay  a  month  in  England?  Spend 
that  month  in  London,  where  things  interrupted,  and  peo- 
ple stared,  and  old-time  talk  was  remembered?  No! 
Kate  Raymore  jumped  at  the  idea  that  this  wonderful 
month  should  be  spent  in  the  country,  in  quiet  and  seclu- 
sion, among  old  friends  whose  lips  would  be  guarded, 
whose  looks  friendly,  whose  hearts  in  sympathy. 

When  Jeremy  made  this  arrangement — so  excellent  a 

352 


THE  GREAT  WRONG  353 

one  that  he  may  be  pardoned  for  almost  forgetting  the 
selfish  side  of  it — he  had  not  failed  to  remember  Dora 
Hutting.  There  had  always  been  alternative  endings  to 
that  story.  Jeremy's  present  scheme  was  a  variation  from 
both  of  them.  None  the  less,  he  had  come  decidedly  to 
prefer  it  to  either.  But  he  had  not  allowed  for  the  pres- 
ence of  the  curate;  and  this  circumstance,  casually  brought 
to  his  knowledge  by  Grantley  Imason  on  the  evening  of 
his  arrival,  had  rather  disturbed  him.  There  was  another 
feature  in  the  case  for  which  he  was  quite  unprepared. 
The  name  of  the  curate  was  a  famous  one — actually  fa- 
mous through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land!  This 
was  rather  a  staggerer  for  Jeremy,  who  might  deride,  but 
could  not  deny,  the  curate's  greatness.  Certain  forms  of 
glory  may  appeal  more  to  one  man  than  to  another,  but  all 
are  glorious.    The  curate  was  Mallam  of  Somerset. 

"The  Mallam?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"Yes,  the  Mallam,"  said  Grantley  gravely. 

"By  Jove !"  Jeremy  murmured. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  forgive  her,"  Grantley  suggested. 
"He's  played  twice  for  England,  you  know,  and  made  a 
century  the  first  time." 

"I  remember,"  Jeremy  acknowledged,  looking  very 
thoughtful. 

This  was  quite  a  different  matter  from  the  ordinary 
curate.  Ritualistic  proclivities,  however  obnoxious  to  Jere- 
my in  their  essence,  became  a  pardonable  eccentricity  in  a 
man  whose  solid  reputation  had  been  won  in  other  fields. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  Dora  carried  her  head  very 
high,  or  that  the  cold  politeness  of  her  bow  relegated  Jere- 
my to  a  fathomless  oblivion.  Knowing  the  ways  of  girls, 
and  reluctantly  conscious  of  Mr.  Mallam's  greatness — con- 
scious too,  perhaps,  that  his  own  riches  and  fame  were  not 
as  yet  much  in  evidence — he  was  prepared  for  that.    But, 


354  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

alas,  Charley  was  a  cricketer  too,  and  had  infected  Eva 
with  his  enthusiasm  for  the  game.  She  was  quite  excited 
about  Mallam.  Jeremy  did  not  appreciate  this  feeling  as 
generously  as  he  might  have;  yet  Eva  made  no  attempt 
to  conceal  it.  She  rather  emphasised  it ;  for  she  had  come 
to  the  stage  when  she  sought  defences.  After  the  first 
eager  spring  to  meet  the  offered  and  congenial  love,  there 
comes  often  this  recoil.  The  girl  would  have  things  stay 
as  they  are,  since  they  are  very  pleasant,  and  the  next  step 
is  into  the  unknown.  She  loves  delay  then,  and,  since  the 
man  will  not  have  it  for  its  own  sake  (not  knowing  its 
sweetness  nor  the  fear  that  aids  its  charm),  she  enforces 
it  on  him  by  trickery,  and  makes  him  afraid  of  losing  the 
draught  altogether  by  insisting  on  his  sipping  it  at  first. 
She  will  use  any  weapon  in  this  campaign,  and  an  ardent 
admiration  for  Mr.  Mallam  was  a  very  useful  weapon  to 
Eva  Raymore.  She  said  more  than  once  that  she  consid- 
ered Dora  Hutting  a  very  lucky  girl.  She  thought  Dora 
must  be  charming,  since  Mallam  was  in  love  with  her. 
She  held  Mallam  to  be  very  handsome,  and  refused  to 
believe — well,  that  his  talent  was  so  highly  specialised  as 
Jeremy  tried  to  persuade  her  in  words  somewhat  less  gentle 
than  these. 

Jeremy's  knowledge  of  girls  gave  out  before  this  unex- 
pected call  upon  it.  He  recollected  how  Dora  had  served 
him,  and  how  Anna  Selford  had  trifled  with  Alec  Turner. 
He  grew  apprehensive  and  troubled — also  more  and  more 
in  love.  He  forecast  complicated  tragedies,  and  saw  Mal- 
lam darkening  his  life  wherever  he  turned.  But  the  women 
understood — Kate  Raymore,  Christine,  even  Sibylla.  They 
glanced  at  one  another,  and  laughed  among  themselves. 
They  were  rather  proud  of  Eva,  who  played  their  sex's 
game  so  well. 

"Thank  goodness,  she's  learnt  to  flirt!"  said  Christine. 


THE  GREAT  WRONG  355 

"A  woman's  nowhere  without  that,  my  dear,  and  I  don't 
care  whether  she's  married  or  not." 

"She  just  adores  Jeremy,"  Kate  assured  Sibylla.    "Only 
men  can't  see,  you  know." 

Sibylla  laughed.  She  understood  now — better  than  in 
the  days  when  she  herself  was  wooed.  But  she  blushed  a 
little  too,  which  was  strange,  unless,  perchance,  she  found 
some  parallel  to  Eva's  conduct  which  she  was  not  inclined 
to  discuss  with  her  friends.  Jeremy  was  not  the  only  man 
who  went  courting  just  now  in  Milldean.  Nor  was  Kate 
Raymore  the  only  woman  whose  heart  expected  a  wanderer 
home,  and  trembled  at  the  joy  of  a  long-desired  meeting. 
The  period  of  Mrs.  Mumple's  expectation  was  almost 
done.  In  two  or  three  weeks  she  was  to  go  on  a  journey ; 
she  would  come  back  to  Old  Mill  House  not  alone.  The 
house  was  swept  and  garnished,  and  Mrs.  Mumple  had  a 
new  silk  gown.  The  latter  she  showed  to  Kate — and  a 
new  bonnet  too,  which  was  a  trifle  gayer  than  her  ordi- 
nary wear;  it  had  a  touch  of  youth  about  it.  Mrs.  Mum- 
ple knew  very  well  who  was  the  best  person  to  show  these 
treasures  to,  who  the  best  listener  to  her  speculations  as  to 
the  manner  of  that  meeting.  And  she,  in  turn,  was  eager 
to  listen  to  Kate  when  the  news  came  that  Charley's  ship 
was  to  be  in  quite  soon.  Kate  could  not  say  much  about 
that  to  anybody  except  to  Mrs.  Mumple;  but  she  was  sure 
that  Mrs.  Mumple  would  understand. 

When  on  the  top  of  all  this  came  the  announcement  that 
Dora  Hutting's  wedding  was  fixed  for  that  day  three 
weeks,  Christine  Fanshaw  was  moved  to  protest. 

"Really,  Grantley,"  she  exclaimed,  "this  village  is  a 
centre  of  love-making,  of  one  sort  or  another  l" 

"All  villages  are,"  said  Grantley,  suavely  tolerant,  "or 
they  couldn't  go  on  being  villages.  It's  life  or  death  to 
them,  Christine." 


356  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"That's  a  contemptible  evasion.  The  atmosphere  is  hor- 
ribly sentimental.  I  don't  think  I'm  in  sympathy  with  it 
at  all." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  then,"  said  Grantley.  "I  like  it,  you 
know.  Oh,  you  needn't  fret,  my  dear  friend!  There's 
been  lots  of  trouble — and  there'll  be  lots  more." 

"Yes,  trouble — and  hatred  too?" 

"Oh,  well,  suppose  we  suppose  there  won't  be  that?" 
he  suggested.     "But  the  trouble,  anyhow." 

"Then  everybody  oughtn't  to  pretend  that  there  won't! 
The  way  people  talk  about  marriages  is  simply  hypocrisy." 

"When  the  bather  is  on  the  bank,  it's  no  moment  for 
remarking  that  the  water  is  cold.  And  the  truth  is  in  our 
hearts  all  the  time.  Am  I  likely  to  forget  it,  for  instance  ? 
Or  are  you  likely  to  forget  poor  old  Tom  and  that  un- 
happy woman?" 

"Or  am  I  likely  to  forget  myself?"  Christine  murmured, 
looking  out  of  the  window.  As  she  looked,  Dora  passed 
by,  and  broad-shouldered  young  Mallam  with  her.  "Oh, 
well,  bless  the  children!"  she  said,  laughing. 

"It  doesn't  do,  though,  to  be  too  knowing — too  much 
up  to  all  nature's  little  tricks,"  Grantley  went  on,  as  he 
came  and  stood  beside  her.  "We  oughtn't  to  give  the  old 
lady  away.  She  seems  a  bit  primitive  in  her  methods  some- 
times, but,  if  we  don't  interfere,  she  usually  gets  there  in 
the  end.     But  we  mustn't  find  out  all  her  secrets." 

Christine  looked  up  with  a  smile  and  the  suspicion  of  a 
blush. 

"Oh,  well,  one  cant  always  forget  them  again,"  she 
said. 

"With  the  proper  assistance,"  he  agreed,  smiling. 
"And  after  all  she's  very  accommodating.  If  you  do  what 
she  wants,   she  doesn't  care  a  hang  about  your  private 


THE  GREAT  WRONG  357 

"I  call  that  unscrupulous,"  Christine  objected. 

"Oh,  yes,  the  most  immoral  old  hussy  that  ever  was !" 
he  laughed.  "I  love  her  for  that.  In  her  matrimonial 
advertisement  the  woman  is  always  rich,  beautiful,  and 
amiable!" 

"And  the  man  handsome,  steady,  and  constant!" 

"So  we  pay  the  fees — and  sometimes  get  the  article." 

"Sometimes,"  said  Christine.  "Of  course  we  always 
suit  the  description  ourselves?" 

"A  faith  in  one's  self — secure,  impregnable,  eternal — 
is  the  one  really  necessary  equipment." 

"So  you've  found?" 

"Don't  be  personal — or  penetrating,  Christine.  The 
forms  of  faith  vary — the  faith  remains." 

Christine  looked  up  at  him  again.  Something  in  her 
eyes  made  him  pat  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"Oh,  it's  all  very  well,"  she  murmured  in  rueful  peevish- 
ness, "but  I  shan't  be  able  to  stand  too  much  happiness 
here." 

"Think  of  the  others,"  he  advised,  "and  you'll  regain 
the  balance  of  your  judgment." 

To  think  of  the  others  was  decidedly  a  good  thing. 
Reason  dictated  the  survey  of  a  wider  field,  the  discovery 
and  recognition  of  an  average  emerging  from  the  inequali- 
ties. The  result  of  such  a  process  should  be  either  a  tem- 
perate self-satisfaction  or  a  clear-sighted  resignation;  you 
would  probably  find  yourself  not  much  above  nor  much 
below  the  level  thus  scientifically  demonstrated.  But  the 
ways  of  science  are  not  always  those  of  the  heart,  and  that 
we  are  less  miserable  than  some  people  is  not  a  consolation 
for  being  more  unhappy  than  others — least  of  all  when 
the  happy  are  before  our  eyes  and  the  wretched  farther 
off.  Neither  the  preacher  of  Grantley's  doctrine  nor  its 
hearer  was  converted.    Grantley  still  wanted  the  best,  and 


35«  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

Christine,  asking  nothing  so  very  great,  was  the  more  ag- 
grieved that  she  was  denied  even  what  she  demanded. 

Kate  Raymore's  day  came.  Only  Jeremy  accompanied 
the  family  to  meet  the  boat.  Kate  said  they  would  want 
somebody  to  bustle  about  after  the  luggage.  In  truth 
Jeremy  seemed  to  her  already  as  one  of  her  own  house. 
But  he  did  not  seem  so  to  himself.  Eva  had  been  very 
wayward,  full  of  admiration  for  Mr.  Mallam,  and  on  the 
strict  defensive  against  Jeremy's  approaches.  He  was  so 
distressed  and  puzzled  that  he  might  have  comforted  even 
Christine  Fanshaw,  and  that  he  was  in  fact  exceedingly 
bad  company  for  anybody.  But  the  party  did  not  ask  for 
conversation.  A  stillness  fell  on  them  all  as  they  waited 
for  the  boat,  Kate  clasping  her  husband's  arm  tight  while 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  approaching  ship. 

The  boy  came  down  the  gangway  and  saw  them  wait- 
ing. He  was  a  good-looking  young  fellow,  tall  and  slim, 
with  curly  hair.  Joy  and  apprehension,  shame  and  pride, 
struggled  for  mastery  on  his  face.  Kate  saw,  and  her 
heart  was  very  full.  His  fault,  his  flight,  his  banishment, 
were  vivid  in  his  mind,  and,  to  his  insight,  vivid  in  theirs 
too.  But  there  was  something  else  that  his  eyes  begged 
them  to  remember — the  struggle  to  retrieve  himself,  the 
good  record  over-seas,  the  thought  that  they  were  to  be 
together  again  for  a  while  without  fear  and  without  a  cloud 
between  them.  Their  letters  had  breathed  no  reproach, 
and  had  been  full  of  love.  But  letters  cannot  give  the 
assurance  of  living  eyes.  He  still  feared  reproach;  he  had 
to  beg  for  love,  and  to  fear  to  find  it  not  unimpaired. 

"My  boy!"  whispered  Kate  Raymore  as  she  clasped 
him  to  her  arms. 

"You're  looking  well,  Charley,"  said  Raymore,  "but 
older,  I  think." 

Yes,  he  was  older;  that  was  part  of  the  price  which  had 


THE  GREAT  WRONG  359 

fallen  to  be  paid,  and  the  happiness  of  reunion  could  not 
avail  against  it.  His  own  hand  had  overthrown  the  first 
glory  of  his  youth;  it  had  died  not  gradually,  but  by  a 
violent  death;  the  traces  were  on  his  face.  There  was  a 
touch  of  awe  in  Eva's  eyes  as  she  kissed  her  brother — the 
awe  evoked  by  one  who  had  fallen,  endured,  and  fought. 
He  had  to  pay  the  uttermost  farthing  of  his  debt. 

Yet  the  joy  rose  supreme,  deeper  and  tenderer  for  the 
grief  behind  it,  for  the  struggle  by  which  it  was  won,  be- 
cause it  came  as  a  victory  after  a  heavy  fight.  To  Kate 
it  seemed  as  though  he  had  suffered  for  their  sakes  as  well 
as  for  his  own  sin,  since  in  sorrow  over  him  and  his  ban- 
ishment their  hearts  had  come  closer  together,  and  love 
reigned  stronger  in  their  home.  A  strange  remorse  struck 
her  and  mingled  with  her  compassion  and  her  gladness 
as  she  held  her  son  at  arm's  length  and  looked  again  in 
his  eyes.  It  was  hard  to  keep  track  of  these  things,  to  see 
how  the  good  and  the  evil  worked,  to  understand  how  no 
man  was  unto  himself  alone,  and  not  to  accuse  of  injustice 
the  way  by  which  one  paid  for  all,  while  all  sorrowed 
for  one. 

As  they  turned  away  to  the  carriage,  Eva  touched  Jere- 
my on  the  arm.  He  turned  to  find  her  smiling,  but  her 
lips  trembled. 

"If  I  drive  back  with  them,  I  shall  cry,  and  then  I  shall 
look  a  fright,"  she  whispered.  "Besides  they'd  rather 
have  him  to  themselves  just  now.  Will  you  walk  back 
with  me?"* 

"All  right,"  said  Jeremy  curtly. 

His  feelings  too  had  been  touched,  so  that  his  manner 
was  cool  and  matter-of-fact  almost  to  aggressiveness.  He 
preferred  to  make  nothing  at  all  of  walking  back  with  Eva, 
though  the  way  was  long,  and  the  winter  sun  shone  over 
the  sea  and  the  downs,  the  wind  was  fresh  and  crisp,  and 
youthful  blood  went  tingling  through  the  veins. 


36o  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"It's  cold  driving,  anyhow,"  he  added,  as  an  after- 
thought. 

It  was  not  cold  walking,  though,  or  Jeremy  did  not  so 
find  it.  It  was  in  his  mind  that  now  he  had  his  chance,  if 
he  could  find  courage  to  use  it  and  to  force  an  issue.  For 
him  too  Charley  and  Charley's  sorrow  had  done  some- 
thing. They  had  induced  in  Eva  a  softer  mood;  the  ar- 
mour of  her  coquetry  was  pierced  by  a  shaft  of  deep  feel- 
ing. As  they  walked  she  was  silent,  forgetting  to  torment 
him,  silently  glad  of  his  friendship  and  his  company.  She 
said  nothing  of  Dora  Hutting's  good-fortune  or  of  Mal- 
lam's  good  looks  now.  She  was  thinking  of  her  mother's 
face  as  she  welcomed  Charley,  and  was  musing  on  love. 
It  was  Jeremy's  moment,  if  he  could  make  use  of  it. 
But  in  this  mood  she  rather  frightened  him,  raising  about 
herself  defences  different  from  the  gleaming  barrier  of  her 
coquetry,  yet  not  less  effective.  He  feared  to  disturb  her 
thoughts,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  wooing  would  be 
rude  and  rough. 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  him. 

"You'll  be  friends  with  Charley,  won't  you?  Real 
friends,  I  mean?  You  won't  let  what — what's  happened 
stand  in  the  way?  You  see,  he'll  be  awfully  sensitive 
about  it,  and  if  he  fancies  you're  hanging  back,  or  any- 
thing of  that  kind " 

Her  eyes  were  very  urgent  in  their  appeal. 

"Of  course  I  shall  be  friends  with  him;  I  shouldn't 
dream  of " 

"I'm  sure  you'll  like  him  for  his  own  sake,  when  you 
know  him.  And  till  then,  for  mother's  sake,  for  our  sake, 
you'll  be  nice  to  him,  won't  you?" 

"Do  you  care  particularly  about  my  being  nice  to  him?" 

"Of  course  I  do !    We're  friends,  you  see." 

Jeremy's  fear  wore  off;  excitement  began  to  rise  in  him; 


THE  GREAT  WRONG  361 

the  spirit  of  the  game  came  upon  him.  He  turned  to  his 
work. 

"Are  we  friends?"  he  asked.  "You've  not  been  very 
friendly  lately." 

"Never  mind  me.    Be  friendly  with  Charley." 

"For  your  sake?" 

"For  our  sake,  yes." 

"I  said,  for  your  sake." 

A  smile  dimpled  through  Eva's  gravity. 

"  'Your'  is  a  plural,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Then — for  thy  sake?"  said  Jeremy.  "That's  singular, 
anyhow." 

"Oh,  for  my  sake,  then,  if  you  think  it  worth  while." 

"I  don't  think  anything  worth  while  except  pleasing 
you,  Eva.  I  used  to  manage  it,  I  think;  but  somehow  it's 
grown  more  difficult  lately." 

He  stopped  in  his  walk  and  faced  her.  She  walked  on 
a  pace  or  two,  but  he  would  not  follow.  Irresolutely  she 
halted. 

"More  difficult?    Pleasing  me  grown  more  difficult?" 

"Well,  pleasing  you  as  much  as  I  want  to,  I  mean." 
Jeremy  in  his  turn  smiled  for  a  moment;  but  he  was  in 
deadly  earnest  again  as  he  stepped  up  to  her  and  caught 
hold  of  her  hands.  "Now's  the  time,"  he  said.  "You've 
got  to  say  yes  or  no." 

"You  haven't  asked  me  anything  yet,"  she  murmured, 
laughing,  her  eyes  away  from  him  and  her  hands  in  his. 

"Yes,  I  have,  dozens  of  times — dozens  and  dozens. 
And  I'm  not  going  to  ask  it  again — not  in  words  anyhow. 
You  know  the  question." 

"It's  horribly  unfair  to — to  do  this  to-day — to-day, 
when  I'm " 

"Not  a  bit.  To-day's  the  very  day  for  it,  and  that's 
why  you  must  answer  to-day."     A  deeper  note  came  into 


362  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

his  words,  deeper  than  he  had  commanded  when  he  made 
love  to  Dora  Hutting  on  these  same  downs  not  so  very 
long  ago.  "I  make  love  to  you  to-day  because  love's  in 
your  heart  to-day.  You're  wanting  to  love;  it's  round 
about  us,  Eva." 

For  an  instant  she  saw  in  him  a  likeness  she  had  never 
noticed  before — a  likeness  to  Sibylla :  Sibylla's  ardent  all- 
demanding  temper  seemed  to  speak  in  his  words. 

"Yes,  this  is  the  day — our  day.  And  this  day  shall  be 
the  beginning  or  the  end.  You  know  the  question.  What's 
the  answer,  Eva?" 

He  let  go  of  her  hands,  and  drew  back  two  or  three 
paces.  He  left  her  free;  if  she  came  to  him,  it  must  be 
of  her  own  motion. 

uHow  very  peremptory  you  are!"  she  protested. 

Her  cheeks  were  red  now,  and  the  look  of  sorrow  had 
gone  out  of  her  eyes.  Her  breath  came  quick,  and  when 
she  looked  at  the  sea  the  waves  seemed  to  dance  to  the 
liveliest  music.  At  sea  and  land  she  looked,  at  the  sky 
and  at  the  wintry  sun ;  her  glance  touched  everywhere  save 
where  Jeremy  stood. 

"The  answer!"  demanded  Jeremy. 

For  a  moment  more  she  waited.  Then  she  came  toward 
him  hesitatingly,  her  eyes  not  yet  seeking  his  face.  She 
came  up  to  him  and  stood  with  her  hands  hanging  by  her 
side.  Then  slowly  she  raised  to  his  face  the  large  trustful 
eyes  which  he  had  known  and  loved  so  well. 

"The  answer  is  Yes,  Jeremy,"  she  said.  "For  all  my 
life  and  with  all  my  heart,  dear!" 

"I  knew  this  was  the  right  day!"  cried  Jeremy. 

"Oh,  any  day  was  right!"  she  whispered  as  she  sought 
his  arms. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  he  burst  into  Grantley  Imason's 
room,  declaring  that  he  was  the  happiest  man  on  earth. 


THE  GREAT  WRONG  363 

This  condition  of  his,  besides  being  by  no  means  rare  in 
young  men,  was  not  unexpected,  and  congratulations  met 
the  obvious  needs  of  the  occasion.  Sibylla,  who  was  there, 
was  not  even  very  emotional  over  the  matter;  the  remem- 
brance of  Dora  Hutting  inclined  her  mind  toward  the  hu- 
morous aspect — so  hard  is  it  to  appreciate  the  changeful 
processes  of  other  hearts.  But  Jeremy  himself  was  excited 
enough  for  everybody,  and  his  excitement  carried  him  into 
forgetfulness  of  a  solemn  pledge  which  he  had  once  given. 
He  wrung  Grantley's  hand  with  a  vigour  at  once  embar- 
rassing and  painful,  crying: 

"I  owe  it  all  to  you !  I  should  never  have  dared  it  ex- 
cept for  the  partnership  that's  coming,  and  that  was  all 
your  doing.    Without  your  money " 

"Damn  you,  Jeremy!"  said  Grantley  in  a  quiet  whisper, 
rescuing  his  hand  and  compassionately  caressing  it  with  its 
uninjured  brother. 

The  imprecation  seemed  to  be  equally  distributed  be- 
tween Jeremy's  two  causes  of  offence,  but  Jeremy  allocated 
it  to  one  only. 

"Oh,  good  Lord!"  he  said,  with  a  guilty  glance  at 
Sibylla. 

"What  money?"  asked  Sibylla. 

She  had  been  sitting  by  the  fire,  but  rose  now,  and  leant 
her  shoulder  against  the  mantelpiece. 

Jeremy  looked  from  her  to  Grantley. 

"I'm  most  awfully  sorry.  I  forgot.  I'm  a  bit  beside 
myself,  you  know."  Grantley  shrugged  his  shoulders 
rather  crossly.     "I  won't  say  another  word  about  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,  Jeremy,"  observed  Sibylla  with  a 
dangerous  look.  "You'll  tell  me  all  about  it  this  mo- 
ment, please." 

"Shall  I?"    Jeremy  turned  to  Grantley  again. 

"I  expect  the  mischief's  done  now;  but  you  needn't 


364  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

have  lost  your  memory  or  your  wits  just  because  you're 

going  to  marry  Eva  Raymore." 

"Marrying  does  make  people  lose  their  wits  some- 
times," said  Sibylla  coldly.  Grantley's  brows  lifted  a  little 
as  he  plumped  down  in  a  chair  with  a  resigned  air.  "Tell 
me  what  you  mean,  Jeremy." 

"Well,  I  had  to  put  money  into  the  business  if  I  was 
ever  to  be  more  than  a  clerk— if  I  was  ever  to  get  a  part- 
nership, you  know." 

"And  Grantley  gave  you  the  money?" 

"I'm  going  to  pay  it  back  when — when " 

"Yes,  of  course,  Jeremy  dear.     How  much  was  it?" 
Grantley  lit  a  cigarette,  and  came  as  near  looking  un- 
comfortable as  the  ingrained  composure  of  his  manner  al- 
lowed. 

"Five  thousand,"  said  Jeremy.    "Wasn't  it  splendid  of 

him?    So  you  see,  I  could  afford " 

"Five  thousand  to  Jeremy!"  said  Sibylla.  She  turned 
on  Grantley.    "And  how  much  to  John  Fanshaw?" 

"You  women  are  all  traitors.  Christine  had  no  business 
to  say  a  word.  It  was  pure  business;  he  pays  me  back 
regularly.  And  Jeremy's  going  to  pay  me  back  too. 
Come,  I  haven't  done  any  harm  to  either  of  them." 

"No,  not  to  them,"  she  said.  And  she  added  to  Jere- 
my: "Go  and  tell  Christine.  She'll  be  delighted  to  hear 
about  you  and  Eva." 

"By  Jove,  I  will!     I  say,  I'm  really  sorry,  Grantley." 
"You  ought  to  be.     No,  you  may  do  anything  except 
shake  my  hand  again." 

"I  can't  help  being  so  dashed  jolly,  you  know." 
With  that  apology  he  darted  out  of  the  room,  forget- 
ting his  broken  pledge,  intent  only  on  finding  other  ears 
to  hear  his  wonderful  news. 

"It's  very  satisfactory,  isn't  it?"  asked  Grantley.     "I 


THE  GREAT  WRONG  365 

think  they'll  get  on  very  well,  you  know.  He's  young,  of 
course,  and " 

"Please  don't  make  talk,  Grantley.  When  did  you  give 
him  that  money?" 

"I  don't  remember." 

"There  are  bank-books  and  so  on,  aren't  there?" 

"How  businesslike  you're  getting!" 

"Tell  me  when,  please!" 

Grantley  rose  and  stood  opposite  to  her,  even  as  they 
had  stood  in  the  inn — at  the  Sailors'  Rest  at  Fairhaven. 

"I  don't  remember  the  date."  He  paused,  seemed  to 
think,  and  then  went  on :  "Yes,  I'll  tell  you,  because  then 
you'll  understand.  He  came  to  me  the  morning  of  the 
day  you — you  went  over  to  Fairhaven.  While  he  was 
there,  Christine's  letter  came.  And  I  gave  him  the  money 
because  I  wanted  to  put  you  in  the  wrong  as  much  as  I 
could.  Oh,  I  liked  Jeremy,  and  was  willing  to  help  him 
— just  as  I  was  ready  to  help  old  John.  But  that  wasn't 
my  great  reason.  My  great  reason  was  to  get  a  bigger 
grievance  against  you — for  the  way  you  had  treated  me 
and  were  going  to  treat  me,  you  know." 

"If  it  had  been  that,  you'd  have  told  me — you'd  have 
told  me  that  night  in  the  inn.  You  must  have  known  what 
it  would  have  been  to  me  to  hear  it  then;  but  you  never 
told  me." 

"I  wouldn't  part  with  the  pleasure  of  having  it  against 
you — of  nursing  it  against  you  secretly.  I  want  you  to 
understand  the  truth.     Are  you  very  angry?" 

Sibylla  appeared  to  be  angry;  there  was  a  dash  of  red 
on  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,  I'm  angry,"  she  said;  "and  I've  a  right  to  be 
angry.  You're  good  to  John  Fanshaw;  you're  good  to 
Jeremy.    Have  you  been  good  to  me?" 

"It  was  done  in  malice  against  you — and  in  a  petty 
malice,  I  think  now,  though  I  didn't  think  that  then," 


366  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

"Doing  it  was  no  malice  to  me.  You  did  it  in  love  of 
me!"  Her  words  were  a  challenge  to  him  to  deny;  and, 
looking  at  her,  he  could  not  deny.  He  had  never  denied 
his  love  for  her,  and  he  would  not  now.  "The  wrong  you 
did  me  was  not  in  doing  it,  but  in  not  telling  me;  yes,  not 
telling  me  about  that,  nor  about  what  you  did  for  John 
Fanshaw  either." 

"I  couldn't  risk  seeming  to  try  to  make  a  claim,  espe- 
cially when " 

"Especially  when  making  a  claim  on  me  might  have 
saved  me?  Is  that  what  you  mean?  When  it  might  have 
made  all  the  difference  to  me  and  to  Frank?  When  it 
might  have  turned  me  back  from  my  madness?  All  was 
to  go  to  ruin  sooner  than  that  you  should  risk  seeming  to 
make  a  claim!" 

He  attempted  no  answer,  but  stood  very  still,  listening 
and  ready  to  listen.  Her  voice  lost  something  of  its  hard- 
ness and  became  more  appealing  as  she  went  on. 

"They're  allowed  to  know  your  good  side,  the  kind 
things  you  do,  how  you  stand  by  your  friends,  how  you 
help  people,  how  you  lavish  gifts  on  my  brother  for  my 
sake.  You  don't  hide  it  from  them.  They  know  you  can 
love,  and  love  to  give  happiness.  There  are  only  two 
people  who  mayn't  know — the  two  people  in  all  the  world 
who  ought  to  know,  whose  happiness  and  whose  trust  in 
themselves  and  in  one  another  lie  in  knowing.  They  must 
be  hoodwinked  and  kept  in  the  dark.  They're  to  know 
nothing  of  you.  For  them  you  find  the  bad  motive,  the 
mean  interpretation,  the  selfish  point  of  view.  And  you're 
so  ingenious  in  finding  it  for  them !  Grantley,  to  those 
two  people  you've  done  a  great  wrong." 

He  was  silent  a  moment.    Then  he  asked : 

"To  you  and  the  little  boy,  you  mean?" 

"No;  he's  too  young.  Anyhow  I  didn't  mean  him;  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  him.    You  know  that  sometimes  T  don't 


THE  GREAT  WRONG  367 

think  of  him — that  sometimes,  in  love  or  in  hatred,  I  can 
think  of  nothing  in  the  world  but  you,  but  you  and  me. 
And  it's  to  me  and  to  yourself  that  you've  done  the 
wrong." 

"To  you — and  myself?" 

"Yes,  yes!  Oh,  what's  the  use  of  doing  fine  things  if 
you  bury  them  from  me,  if  you  distort  them  to  yourself, 
if  you  won't  let  either  me  or  yourself  think  them  generous 
and  good?  Why  must  you  trick  me  and  yourself,  of  all 
the  world  ?  Oughtn't  we  to  know — oughtn't  we  of  every- 
body in  the  world  to  know  ?  What's  the  good  of  kindness 
if  you  dress  it  up  as  selfishness?  What's  the  good  of  love 
if  you  call  it  malice?" 

"I've  spoken  the  truth  as  I  believed  it." 

"No,  I  say  no,  Grantley!  You've  spoken  it  as  you 
would  have  me  believe  it,  as  you  try  to  make  yourself  be- 
lieve it.  But  it's  not  the  truth!"  She  came  one  step  nearer 
to  him.  "I  used  to  pray  that  you  should  change,"  she  said 
imploringly.  "I  don't  pray  that  now.  It's  impossible. 
And  I  don't  think  I  want  it.  Don't  change;  but,  oh,  be 
yourself !  Be  yourself  to  me  and  to  yourself !  You  haven't 
been  to  either  of  us.  Open  your  heart  to  both  of  us;  let 
us  both  know  you  as  you  are.  Don't  be  ashamed  either 
before  me  or  before  yourself.  I  know  I'm  difficult! 
Heavens,  aren't  you — even  the  real  you — difficult  too? 
But  if  you  won't  be  honest  in  the  end,  then  God  help  us! 
But  if  you'll  be  yourself  to  me  and  to  yourself,  then,  my 
dear,  I  think  it  would  be  enough." 

He  came  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"No  man  ever  loved  woman  more  than  I  love  you,"  he 
said. 

"Then  try,  then  try,  then  try!"  she  whispered,  and  her 
eyes  met  his. 

There  seemed  in  them  a  far-off  gleam  of  the  light  which 
orfce  had  blazed  from  them  on  the  fairv  ride. 


Y 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-SEVEN 

SAMPLES    OF    THE    BULK 

^OU  do  think  they'll  be  happy?"  Mrs.  Selford 
asked  a  little  apprehensively.  Her  manner  craved 
reassurance. 

"Why  put  that  question  to  me — to  me  of  all  people? 
Is  it  on  the  principle  of  knowing  the  worst?  If  even  a 
cynic  like  me  thinks  they'll  be  happy,  the  prospect  will  be 
very  promising — is  that  it?" 

"Goodness  knows  I  don't  expect  the  ideal!  I've  never 
had  it  myself.  Oh,  I  don't  see  why  I  need  pretend  with 
you,  and  I  shouldn't  deceive  you  if  I  did.  I've  never  had 
the  ideal  myself,  and  I  don't  expect  it  for  Anna.  We've 
seen  too  much  in  our  set  to  expect  the  ideal.  And  some- 
times I  can't  quite  make  Anna  out."  Mrs.  Selford  was 
evidently  uneasy.  "She  gets  on  better  with  her  father 
than  with  me  now;  and  I  think  I  get  on  better  with  Walter 
than  Richard  does." 

"Young  Walter  has  a  way  with  him,"  smiled  Cayle- 
sham. 

"I  hope  we  shan't  get  into  opposite  camps  and  quarrel. 
Richard  and  I  have  been  such  good  friends  lately.  And 
then,  of  course — "  She  hesitated  a  little.  "Of  course 
there  may  be  a  slight  awkwardness  here  and  there." 

Caylesham  understood  the  covert  allusion ;  the  marriage 
might  make  matters  difficult  with  the  Imasons. 

"The  young  folks  will  probably  make  their  own  friends. 
Our  old  set's  rather  broken  up  one  way  and  the  other, 
isn't  it?    Not  that  I  was  ever  a  full  member  of  it." 

"We've  always  been  glad  to  see  you,"  she  murmured 
absently. 

368 


SAMPLES  OF  THE  BULK  369 

"On  the  whole  I  feel  equal  to  encouraging  you  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,"  he  said,  standing  before  the  fire.  "Anna  will 
be  angry  pretty  often,  but  I  don't  think  she  will  be,  or  need 
be,  unhappy.  She  doesn't  take  things  to  heart  too  readily, 
does  she?" 

"No,  she  doesn't." 

The  assent  hardly  sounded  like  praise  of  her  daughter. 

"Well,  that's  a  good  thing.  And  she's  got  lots  of  pluck 
and  a  will  of  her  own." 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  got  that!" 

"From  time  to  time  he'll  think  himself  in  love  with 
somebody.  You're  prepared  for  that  of  course  ?  But  it's 
only  his  way.  She'll  have  to  indulge  him  a  little — let  the 
string  out  a  little  here  and  there;  but  she'll  always  have 
him  under  control.  Brains  do  count,  and  she's  got  them 
all.    And  she  won't  expect  romance  all  the  time." 

"You  said  you  were  going  to  be  encouraging." 

"I  am  being  encouraging,"  Caylesham  insisted. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  think  it  so  bad  if  we  were  talking  about 
myself.     But  when  it's  a  question  of  one's  child " 

"One  is  always  unreasonable?  Precisely.  The  nature 
of  the  business  isn't  going  to  change  in  the  next  generation. 
But  I  maintain  that  I'm  encouraging — for  Anna  anyhow. 
I  rather  fancy  Master  Blake  will  miss  his  liberty  more 
than  he  thinks.  But  that'll  be  just  what  he  needs.  So 
from  a  moral  point  of  view  I'm  encouraging  there  too." 

"Of  course  you  don't  understand  the  feeling  of  respon- 
sibility, the  fear  that  if  she's  the — the  least  bit  hard,  it 
may  be  because  of  her  bringing  up." 

"Don't  be  remorseful,  Mrs.  Selford.  It's  the  most  un- 
profitable of  emotions."  He  had  preached  the  same  doc- 
trine to  Christine. 

"When  it's  too  late  to  go  back?" 

"And  that's  always."     He  looked  down  at  her  with  a 


370  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

cheerful  smile.     "That's  for  your  private  ear.     Don't  tell 

the  children.    Walter  Blake's  quite  great  on  remorse." 

Mrs.  Selford  laughed  rather  ruefully. 

"I  suppose  it'll  turn  out  as  well  as  most  things.  Do 
you  know  any  thoroughly  happy  couples?" 

"Very  hard  to  say.  One  isn't  behind  the  scenes.  But 
I'm  inclined  to  think  I  do.  Oh,  ecstasies  aren't  for  this 
world,  you  know — not  permanent  ecstasies.  You  might 
as  well  have  permanent  hysterics !  And,  as  you're  aware, 
there  are  no  marriages  in  heaven.  So  perhaps  there's  no 
heaven  in  marriages  either.  That  would  seem  to  be  plausi- 
ble reasoning,  wouldn't  it?  But  they'll  be  all  right;  they'll 
learn  one  another's  paces." 

"I  can't  help  wishing  she  seemed  more  in  love." 

"Perhaps  she  will  be  when  he  flirts  with  somebody  else. 
Don't  frown!  I'm  not  a  pessimist.  If  I  don't  always 
look  for  happiness  by  the  ordinary  roads,  I  often  discern 
it  along  quite  unexpected  routes." 

"It's  pleasant  to  see  people  start  by  being  in  love." 

"How  eternally  sentimental  we  are!  Well,  yes,  it  is. 
But  capacities  differ.  I  daresay  she  doesn't  know  she's  de- 
ficient— and  she  certainly  won't  imagine  that  her  mother 
has  given  her  away." 

"I  suppose  I  deserve  that,  but  I  had  to  talk  to  somebody. 
And  really  it's  best  to  choose  a  man;  sometimes  it  stops 
there  then." 

"Why  not  your  husband?  No?  Ah,  he  has  too  many 
opportunities  of  reminding  you  of  the  indiscretion !  You 
were  quite  right  to  talk  to  me.  We  shall  look  on  at  what 
happens  with  all  the  greater  interest  because  we've  dis- 
cussed it.    And,  as  I've  said,  I'm  decidedly  hopeful." 

"We  might  have  developed  her  affections  when  she  was 
a  child.     I'm  sure  we  might." 

"Oh,  I  shall  go !    You  send  for  a  clergyman !" 


SAMPLES    OF   THE    BULK  371 

Mrs.  Selford  shook  her  head  sadly,  even  while  she 
smiled.  She  could  not  be  beguiled  from  her  idea,  nor 
from  the  remorse  that  it  brought.  The  pictures,  the  dogs, 
and  sentimental  squabbling  with  her  husband  had  figured 
too  largely  in  the  household;  she  connected  with  this  fact 
the  disposition  which  she  found  in  Anna. 

"Being  a  bit  hard  isn't  a  bad  thing  for  your  happiness," 
Caylesham  added  as  a  last  consolation. 

Anna  herself  came  in.  No  consciousness  of  deficiency 
seemed  to  afflict  her;  she  felt  no  need  of  a  development 
of  her  affections  or  of  being  more  in  love  with  Walter 
Blake.  On  the  contrary  she  exhibited  to  Caylesham's 
shrewd  eyes  a  remarkable  picture  of  efficiency  and  of  con- 
tentment. She  had  known  what  she  wanted,  she  had  dis- 
cerned what  means  to  use  in  order  to  get  it,  and  she  had 
achieved  it.  A  perfect  self-confidence  assured  her  that  she 
would  be  successful  in  dealing  with  it;  her  serene  air,  her 
trim  figure  and  decisive  movements,  gave  the  impression 
that  here  at  least  was  a  mortal  who,  if  she  did  not  deserve 
success,  could  command  it.  Caylesham  looked  on  her  with 
admiration — rather  that  than  liking — as  he  acknowledged 
her  very  considerable  qualities.  The  thing  which  was 
wanting  was  what  in  a  picture  he  would  have  called  "at- 
mosphere." But  here  again  her  luck  came  in,  or,  rather, 
her  clear  vision ;  it  was  not  fair  to  call  it  luck.  The  man 
she  had  pitched  upon — that  was  fair,  and  Caylesham  de- 
clined to  withdraw  the  expression — at  the  time  when  she 
pitched  upon  him,  was  in  a  panic  about  "atmosphere."  He 
had  found  too  much  of  it  elsewhere,  and  was  uneasy  about 
it  in  himself.  He  was  not  asking  for  softness,  for  tender- 
ness, for  ready  accessibility  to  emotion  or  to  waves  of 
feeling.  Her  cleverness  had  turned  to  account  even  the 
drawback  which  made  Caylesham,  in  the  midst  of  his 
commendation,  conscious  that  he  would  not  choose  to  be 
her  husband — or  perhaps  her  son  either. 


372  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"You'll  make  a  splendid  head  of  the  family,"  he  told 
her  cheerfully.  "You'll  keep  them  all  in  most  excellent 
order." 

She  chose  to  consider  that  he  had  exercised  a  bad  in- 
fluence over  Walter  Blake,  and  treated  him  distantly. 
Caylesham  supported  the  entire  injustice  of  her  implied 
charge  with  good-humour. 

"You're  not  fond  of  excellent  order,  I  suppose?"  she 
asked. 

"In  others,"  said  he,  smiling.  "May  I  come  and  see  it 
in  your  house  sometimes?    I  promise  not  to  disturb  it." 

"I  don't  think  you  could." 

"She  taunts  me  with  my  advancing  years,"  he  com- 
plained to  Mrs.  Selford. 

Anna's  disapproval  of  him  was  marked;  it  increased  his 
amusement  at  the  life  which  lay  before  Walter  Blake. 
Blake  would  want  to  disturb  excellent  order  sometimes ;  he 
would  be  indulged  in  that  proclivity  to  a  strictly  limited 
extent.  If  Grantley  Imason  were  a  revengeful  man,  this 
marriage  ought  to  cause  him  a  great  deal  of  pleasure. 
Caylesham,  while  compelled  to  approve  by  his  reason, 
could  not  help  deploring  in  his  heart.  He  saw  arising  an 
ultra-British  household,  clad  in  the  very  buckram  of  pro- 
priety. Who  could  say  that  morality  did  not  reign  in  the 
world  when  such  a  nemesis  as  this  awaited  Walter  Blake, 
or  that  morality  had  not  a  humour  of  its  own  when  Walter 
Blake  accepted  the  nemesis  with  enthusiasm?  Yet  the 
state  of  things  was  not  unusual — a  fair  sample  of  a  bulk 
of  considerable  size.  Caylesham  went  away  smiling  at  it, 
wondering  at  it,  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  a  trifle  appalled 
at  it.  It  seemed  to  him  rather  inhuman;  but  perhaps  his 
idea  of  humanity  had  gone  a  trifle  far  in  the  opposite 
direction. 


SAMPLES  OF  THE  BULK  373 

And,  after  all,  could  not  Walter  Blake  supply  the  other 
element?  There  was  plenty  of  softness  about  him,  and 
the  waves  of  feeling  were  by  no  means  wanting  in  fre- 
quency or  volume.  Considering  this  question,  Caylesham 
professed  himself  rather  at  a  loss.  He  would  have  to  wait 
and  look  on.  But  would  he  hear  or  see  much?  Anna  had 
evidently  put  him  under  a  ban,  and  he  believed  that  her 
edicts  would  obtain  obedience  in  the  future.  So  far  as  he 
could  see  now,  he  had  a  vision  of  the  waves  stilled  to  rest, 
of  the  gleam  of  frost  forming  upon  them,  of  an  ice-bound 
sea.  Now  he  felt  it  in  his  heart  to  be  sorry  for  young 
Blake.  Not  because  there  was  any  injustice.  The  nemesis 
was  eminently,  and  even  ludicrously,  just.  He  felt  sorry 
precisely  because  it  was  so  just.  He  was  always  sorry  for 
sinners  who  had  to  pay  the  penalty  of  their  deeds;  then 
a  fellow-feeling  went  out  to  them.  Of  course  they  were 
fools  to  grumble.  The  one  wisdom  he  claimed  for  himself 
was  not  grumbling  at  the  bill. 

He  paid  another  visit  that  day,  under  an  impulse  of 
friendliness,  and  perhaps  of  curiosity  too.  He  went  to 
Tom  Courtland's,  and  found  himself  repaid  for  his  trouble 
by  Tom's  cordiality  of  greeting.  The  Courtland  family 
was  in  the  turmoil  of  moving;  they  had  to  go  to  a  much 
smaller  house,  and  to  reduce  the  establishment  greatly. 
But  the  worries  of  a  move  and  the  prospect  of  comparative 
poverty — there  was  very  little  left  besides  Harriet's  mod- 
erate dowry — were  accepted  by  Tom  very  cheerfully,  and 
by  the  children  with  glee ;  they  were  delighted  to  be  told 
that  there  would  be  no  more  men-servants  and  fewer 
maids,  and  that  they  would  have  to  learn  to  shift  for  them- 
selves as  much  and  as  soon  as  possible.  They  were  glad 
to  be  rid  of  "this  great  gloomy  house,"  over  which  the 
shadow  of  calamity  still  brooded. 


374  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

"The  children  don't  like  to  pass  Lady  Harriet's  door 
at  night,"  Suzette  whispered  in  an  aside  to  Caylesham. 

Tom  himself  seemed  younger  and  more  sprightly;  and 
he  was  the  slave  of  his  little  girls.  His  gray  hair,  the  lines 
on  his  face,  and  the  enduring  scar  on  Sophy's  brow  spoke 
of  the  sorrow  which  had  been;  but  the  sorrow  had  given 
place  to  peace — and  it  might  be  that  some  day  peace  would 
turn  to  joy.  For  there  was  much  youth  there,  and,  where 
youth  is,  joy  must  come,  if  only  it  be  given  a  fair  chance. 

"We're  rather  in  narrow  circumstances,  of  course,"  Tom 
explained,  when  Suzette  and  the  children  were  out  of  ear- 
shot.   "That's  because  I  made  such  an  ass  of  myself." 

"Well,  don't  be  hard  on  Flora.  She  was  a  good  friend 
to  you." 

"I'm  not  blaming  her;  it's  myself,  Frank.  I  ought  to 
have  remembered  the  children.  But  we  can  rub  along, 
and  perhaps  I  shall  get  a  berth  some  day." 

Caylesham  did  not  think  that  prospect  a  very  probable 
one,  but  he  dissembled  and  told  Tom  that  his  old  political 
friends  ought  certainly  to  do  something  for  him : 

"Because  it  never  came  to  an  absolute  public  row,  did 
it?" 

"Everybody  knew,"  sighed  Tom,  with  a  relapse  into 
despondency. 

"Anyhow  you  won't  starve,"  Caylesham  said  with  a 
laugh.  "I  reckon  you  must  have  about  a  thousand  a 
year?" 

"It's  not  much;  but — well,  I  tell  you  what,  Frank, 
Suzette  Bligh's  pretty  nearly  as  good  as  another  five  hun- 
dred, and  I  only  pay  her  seventy  pounds  a  year.  You 
wouldn't  believe  what  a  manager  that  little  woman  is! 
She  makes  everything  go  twice  as  far  as  it  did,  and  has  the 
house  so  neat  too.  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  notice  any  dif- 
ference, except  that  I've  dropped  my  champagne." 


SAMPLES  OF  THE  BULK  375 

"Well,  with  champagne  what  it  mostly  is  nowadays, 
that's  no  great  loss,  my  boy,  and  I'm  glad  you've  struck 
it  rich  with  Miss  Bligh." 

"We  should  be  lost  without  her.  I  don't  know  what 
the  children  would  do,  or  what  I  should  do  with  them, 
but  for  her.  One  good  thing  poor  Harriet  did,  anyhow, 
was  to  bring  her  here." 

Yes;  but  if  Harriet  had  known  how  it  was  to  fall  out, 
had  foreseen  how  Suzette  was  to  reign  in  her  stead,  and 
with  what  joy  the  change  of  government  would  be  greeted ! 
Caylesham  imagined,  with  a  conscious  faintness  of  fancy, 
the  tempest  which  would  have  arisen,  and  how  short  a 
shrift  would  have  been  meted  out  to  Suzette  and  all  her  ad- 
herents. He  really  hoped  that  poor  Harriet,  who  had  suf- 
fered enough  for  her  faults,  was  not  in  any  position  in 
which  she  could  be  aware  of  what  had  happened ;  it  would 
be  to  her  (unless  some  great  transformation  had  been 
wrought)  too  hard  and  unendurable  a  punishment. 

"The  children  are  changed  creatures,  Frank,"  Tom  went 
on.  "We  don't  try  to  repress  them,  you  know.  That 
would  be  hypocrisy,  wouldn't  it,  under  the  circumstances? 
The  best  thing  is  for  them  to  forget.  Suzette  says  so,  and 
I  quite  agree." 

Suzette,  it  seemed,  could  achieve  an  epitaph  of  stinging 
quality — quite  without  meaning  it,  of  course.  Caylesham 
agreed  that  the  best  thing  the  girls  could  do  was  to  forget 
their  mother. 

"So  we  let  them  make  a  row,  and  they're  to  go  out  of 
mourning  very  soon.    That's  what  Suzette  advises." 

A  merciful  Providence  must  spare  even  poor  Harriet 
this !  She  was  to  be  forgotten  —  almost  by  a  violent 
process  of  obliteration;  and  this  by  Suzette's  decree — an 
all-powerful  decree  of  gentle  inconspicuous  Suzette's. 

The  man  of  experience  foresaw.     Weak  kindly  Tom 


376  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Courtland  must  always  have  a  woman  to  fend  for  him. 
Because  Harriet  had  not  filled  that  part,  ruin  had  come. 
The  children  must  have  a  guardian  and  a  guide  in  feminine 
affairs.  The  bonds  were  becoming  too  strong  to  be  broken 
— so  strong  that  the  very  idea  of  their  ever  being  broken 
would  cause  terror,  and  impel  steps  to  make  them  formally 
permanent.  Here  was  another  sample  from  a  bulk  of 
goodly  dimensions,  one  of  those  by  no  means  rare  cases 
where  a  woman  who  would  not  otherwise  have  got  a  hus- 
band— or  perhaps  taken  one — passes  through  the  stage  of 
the  indispensable  spinster  to  the  position  of  the  inevitable 
wife.  Caylesham  saw  the  process  begun,  and  he  was  glad 
to  see  it.  It  was  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
Tom,  and  for  the  girls  the  best  way  of  piecing  together 
the  fragments  of  that  home-life  which  Harriet's  cruel  rage 
had  shattered.  Only  they  were  all  still  so  delightfully  un- 
conscious of  what  seemed  obvious  to  an  outsider  with  his 
eyes  about  him.  Caylesham  smiled  at  their  blindness,  and 
took  care  not  to  disturb  Tom's  mind,  or  to  rally  him  about 
his  harping  on  Suzette's  name  and  Suzette's  advice.  He 
was  quite  content  to  leave  the  matter  to  its  natural  course. 
But  coming,  as  it  did,  on  the  top  of  his  visit  to  the  Sel- 
fords'  and  of  his  impressions  of  what  he  had  seen  there,  it 
raised  another  reflection  in  his  mind.  How  many  roads 
there  were  to  Rome !  And  most  of  them  well  trodden. 
Primitive  instinct  or  romantic  passion  was  only  one  of 
many — anyhow  if  the  test  of  predominating  influence  were 
taken.  It  was  not  the  prevailing  factor  with  Anna  Sel- 
ford ;  it  would  hardly  count  at  all  with  Tom  and  Suzette. 
Since  then  the  origin  was  so  various,  what  wonder  the  re- 
sult was  various  too !  Various  results  were  even  expected, 
aimed  at,  desired.  Add  to  that  cause  of  variation  human 
error  and  the  resources  of  the  unexpected,  and  the  field  of 
chance  spread  infinitely  wide.    Save  for  the  purpose  of  be- 


SAMPLES  OF  THE  BULK  377 

ing  amusing — an  end  to  which  all  is  justifiable  that  is  not 
actually  unseemly — only  a  fool  or  a  boy  would  generalise 
about  the  legal  state  which  was  the  outcome  of  such  hetero- 
geneous persons,  aims,  and  tempers.  But  then  at  the  end 
old  nature — persistent  old  nature — would  come  back  and 
give  the  thing  a  twist  in  her  direction,  with  her  babies  and 
her  nursery.  She  made  confusion  worse  confounded,  and 
piled  incongruity  on  incongruity.  But  she  would  do  it, 
and  a  pretty  mixture  was  the  general  result !  To  make  his 
old  metaphor  of  double  harness  at  all  adequate  to  the  sub- 
ject which  it  sought  to  express,  you  must  suppose  many 
breeds  of  horses,  and  a  great  deal  of  very  uneven  and  very 
unsuitable  pairing  of  them  by  the  grooms.  It  was  proba- 
bly all  necessary,  but  the  outcome  was  decidedly  odd. 

"It's  all  been  pretty  bad.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  poor 
Harriet,  and  I'm  not  fond  of  thinking  about  myself,"  said 
Tom  Courtland,  rubbing  his  bristly  hair.  "But  the  worst 
of  it's  over  now.  There's  peace  anyhow,  Frank,  and  at 
least  the  children  were  always  fond  of  me." 

"You're  going  to  get  along  first-rate,"  Caylesham  as- 
sured him.  "And  mind  you  make  Miss  Suzette  stick  to 
you.    She's  a  rare  woman;  I  can  see  that." 

"You're  a  good  chap,  Frank.  You  stick  to  your  friends. 
You  stuck  to  me  all  through." 

"Much  less  trouble  than  dropping  you,  old  fellow." 

"That's  rot!" 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is.  After  all,  if  I  hadn't  some  of  the 
minor  virtues,  I  should  be  hardly  human,  should  I? 
They're  just  as  essential  as  the  minor  vices." 

"If  you  ever  see  Flora,  tell  her — well,  you'll  know  what 
to  tell  her." 

"I'll  say  something  kind.  Good-bye,  Tom.  I'm  glad 
to  find  you  so  cheerful." 

The  girls  came  round  him  to  say  good-bye.    He  kissed 


378  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

them,  and  gave  each  of  them  half-a-crown.  He  used  to 
explain  that  he  always  tipped  children  because  in  after 
years  he  was  thus  made  sure  of  finding  somebody  to  de- 
fend his  character  in  pretty  nearly  any  company.  Since, 
however,  this  was  absolutely  the  only  step  he  ever  took 
with  any  such  end  in  view,  the  explanation  was  often  re- 
ceived with  skepticism.  His  action  was  more  probably  the 
outcome  of  one  of  his  minor  virtues. 

"How  kind  you  are  to  children !  What  a  pity  you're  a 
bachelor!"  smiled  Suzette. 

"Thanks!  I  don't  often  get  such  a  testimonial,"  he 
said,  risking  a  whimsical  lift  of  his  brows  for  Tom  Court- 
land's  eye. 

He  had  been  seeking  impressions  of  marriage.  Chance 
gave  him  one  more  than  he  had  looked  for  or  desired. 
Just  outside  Tom  Courtland's,  as  he  was  going  away,  he 
ran  plump  into  John  Fanshaw,  who  was  making  for  the 
house.  There  was  no  avoiding  him  this  time.  The  men 
had  not  met  since  Caylesham  lent  John  money  and  John 
learnt  from  Harriet  Courtland  the  truth  of  what  the  man 
from  whom  he  took  the  money  had  done.  But  there  had 
been  no  rupture  between  them.  Civil  notes  had  been  writ- 
ten— on  John's  side  even  grateful  notes — as  the  business 
transaction  between  them  necessitated.  And  both  had  a 
part  to  play — the  same  part,  the  part  of  ignorance.  Cayle- 
sham must  play  it  for  Christine.  John  had  to  assume  it  on 
his  own  account,  for  his  own  self-respect.  The  last  shred 
of  his  pride  hung  on  the  assumption  that,  though  he  knew, 
and  though  Christine  was  aware  of  his  knowledge,  Cayle- 
sham at  least  believed  him  ignorant. 

But  heavy  John  Fanshaw  was  a  clumsy  hand  at  make- 
believe.  His  cordiality  was  hesitating,  fumbling,  obviously 
insincere;  his  unhappiness  in  his  part  very  apparent. 
Caylesham  cut  short  his  effort  to  express  gratitude,  saying, 


SAMPLES  OF  THE  BULK  379 

"You  shall  do  anything  in  the  world  except  thank  me !" 
and  went  on  to  ask  after  Christine  in  the  most  natural 
manner  in  the  world. 

"She's  been  a  little — a  little  seedy,  and  has  gone  down 
to  stay  with  the  Imasons  for  a  bit,"  John  explained,  taking 
care  not  to  look  at  Caylesham. 

"Oh,  I  hope  she'll  be  all  right  soon!  Give  her  my  re- 
membrances when  you  write — or  perhaps  you'll  be  run- 
ning down  soon?" 

"I  don't  know.    It  depends  on  business." 

"Come,  you'll  take  Christmas  off,  anyhow?" 

Then  John  took  refuge  in  talking  about  Tom  Court- 
land.  But  his  mind  was  far  from  Tom.  He  managed  at 
last  to  look  Caylesham  in  the  face,  and  grew  more  amazed 
at  his  perfect  ease  and  composure.  He  was  acutely  con- 
scious of  giving  exactly  the  opposite  impression  himself, 
acutely  fearful  that  he  was  betraying  that  hidden  knowl- 
edge of  his.  Actuated  by  this  fear,  he  tried  to  increase  his 
cordiality,  hitting  wildly  at  the  mark,  and  indulging  in 
forced  friendliness  and  even  forced  jocosity. 

Caylesham  met  every  effort  with  just  the  right  tone,  pre- 
cisely the  right  amount  of  effusiveness.  He  had  taken  a 
very  hard  view  of  what  John  had  done — harder  than  he 
could  contrive  to  take  of  what  he  himself  had — and  had 
expressed  it  vigorously  to  Christine.  But  now  he  found 
himself  full  of  pity  for  poor  John.  The  sight  of  the  man 
fighting  for  the  remnant  of  his  pride  and  self-respect  was 
pathetic.     And  John  did  it  so  lamentably  ill. 

"You're  a  paragon  of  a  debtor,"  Caylesham  told  him, 
when  he  harked  back  to  the  money  again.  "My  money's 
a  deal  safer  in  your  hands  than  in  my  own.  I'm  more  in 
your  debt  than  you  are  in  mine." 

"You  shall  have  every  farthing  the  first  day  I  can 
manage  it." 


380  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

His  eagerness  told  Caylesham  what  a  burden  on  his  soul 
the  indebtedness  was.  It  was  impossible  to  ignore  alto- 
gether what  was  so  plainly  shown ;  but  he  turned  the  point 
of  it,  saying : 

"I  know  how  punctilious  you  men  of  business  are.  I 
wish  fellows  were  always  the  same  in  racing!  I'm  ready 
to  take  it  as  soon  as  you're  ready  to  pay,  and  to  wait  till 
you're  ready." 

"I  shan't  ask  you  to  wait  a  day,"  John  assured  him. 

Enough  had  passed  for  civility;  Caylesham  was  eager 
to  get  away — not  for  his  own  sake  so  much  as  for  John's. 

"By  Jove,  I've  got  an  appointment!"  he  exclaimed  sud- 
denly, diving  for  his  watch.  "Half-past  six!  Oh,  I  must 
jump  into  a  cab!"  He  held  the  watch  in  one  hand,  and 
hailed  a  cab  with  his  stick.  "Good-bye,  old  fellow,"  he 
said,  turning  away.  He  had  seen  John  begin  to  put  out 
his  hand  in  a  hesitating  reluctant  way.  He  would  have 
liked  to  shake  hands  himself,  but  he  knew  John  hated  to 
do  it.     John  made  a  last  demonstration  of  ignorance. 

"Come  and  see  us  some  day!"  he  called  almost  jovially. 

"Yes,  I  will  some  day  before  long,"  Caylesham  shouted 
back  from  the  step  of  his  hansom. 

As  he  drove  off,  John  was  still  standing  on  the  pave- 
ment, waving  a  hand  to  him.  Caylesham  drove  round  the 
corner,  then  got  down  again,  and  pursued  his  way  on  foot. 

He  was  quite  clear  in  his  own  mind  that  John  took  the 
thing  unnecessarily  hard,  but  he  was  genuinely  sorry  that 
John  should  so  take  it.  Indeed  John's  distress  raised  an 
unusually  acute  sense  of  discomfort  in  him.  Nor  could  he 
take  any  pride  in  the  tact  with  which  he  himself  had  steered 
the  course  of  the  interview.  He  could  not  avoid  the  con- 
clusion that  to  John  he  must  have  seemed  a  hypocrite  more 
accomplished  than  one  would  wish  to  be  considered  in  the 
arts  of  hypocrisy.    He  had  hitherto  managed  so  well  that 


SAMPLES  OF  THE  BULK  38 1 

he  had  not  been  forced  into  such  situations;  he  had  been 
obliged  to  lie  only  in  his  actions,  and  had  not  come  so  near 
having  to  lie  in  explicit  words.  He  did  not  like  the  ex- 
perience, and  shook  his  head  impatiently  as  he  walked 
along.  It  occurred  to  him  that  since  marriage  was  in  its 
own  nature  so  difficult  and  risky  a  thing  as  he  had  already 
decided,  it  was  hardly  fair  for  third  persons  to  step  in  and 
complicate  it  more.  He  had  to  get  at  any  state  of  mind 
resembling  penitence  by  roads  of  his  own ;  the  ordinary  ap- 
proaches were  overgrown  and  impassable  from  neglect. 
But  in  view  of  John's  distress  and  of  the  pain  which  had 
come  on  Christine,  and  on  a  realisation  of  the  unpleasant 
perfection  of  art  which  he  himself  had  been  compelled 
(and  able)  to  exhibit,  he  achieved  the  impression  that  he 
had  better  have  left  such  things  alone — well,  at  any  rate 
where  honest  old  duffers  like  John  Fanshaw  were  involved 
in  the  case. 

Having  got  so  far,  he  might  not  unnaturally  have  con- 
sidered whether  he  should  remodel  his  way  of  life.  But 
he  was  not  the  man  to  suffer  a  sudden  conversion  under  the 
stress  of  emotion  or  of  a  particular  impression.  His  un- 
sparing clearness  of  vision  and  honesty  of  intellect  forbade 
that. 

"I  shall  get  better  when  I'm  too  old  for  anything  else," 
he  told  himself  with  a  rather  bitter  smile.  "I  suppose  I 
ought  to  thank  God  that  the  time's  not  far  off  now." 

It  was  not  much  of  an  effort  in  the  way  of  that  unprofit- 
able emotion  against  which  he  had  warned  Chrisine  Fan- 
shaw and  Janet  Selford;  but  it  was  enough  to  make  him 
take  a  rather  different  view,  if  not  of  himself,  at  least  of 
old  John  Fanshaw.  He  decided  that  he  had  been  too  hard 
on  John;  and  at  the  back  of  his  mind  was  a  notion  that  he 
had  been  rather  hard  on  Christine  too.  In  this  case  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  getting  off  too  cheaply.    John 


382  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

and  Christine  were  paying  all  the  bill — at  least  a  dispro- 
portionate amount.  The  upshot  of  it  all  was  expressed  in 
his  exclamation : 

"I  don't  want  the  money.  I  wish  to  heaven  old  John 
wouldn't  pay  me  back!" 

He  would  have  felt  easier  for  a  little  more  demerit  in 
John.  It  is  probable,  though  his  philosophising  did  not 
lead  him  so  far  as  this  conclusion,  that  he  too  was  a 
sample,  and  from  a  bulk  not  inconsiderable  in  quantity. 
Where  it  is  possible,  we  prefer  that  the  people  we  have  in- 
jured should  turn  out  to  have  deserved  injury  from  some- 
body. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-EIGHT 

TO    LIFE   AND    LIGHT   AGAIN 

IT  was  the  eve  of  Dora  Hutting's  wedding — a  thing 
in  itself  quite  enough  to  put  Milldean  into  an  un- 
wonted stir.  Everybody  was  very  excited  about  the 
event,  and  very  sympathetic.  Kate  Raymore  had  come  to 
the  front ;  not  even  preoccupation  with  Charley  could  pre- 
vent a  marriage  from  interesting  her.  She  had  given  much 
counsel,  and  had  exerted  herself  to  effect  a  reconciliation 
between  the  bride  and  Jeremy  Chiddingfold.  Into  this 
diplomatic  effort  Sibylla  also  had  been  drawn,  and  peace 
had  been  signed  at  a  tea-party.  With  the  help  of  Chris- 
tine's accomplished  manner  and  Grantley's  tactful  com- 
posure, it  had  been  found  possible  to  treat  the  whole  epi- 
sode as  a  boy-and-girl  affair  which  could  be  laughed  at  and 
thus  dismissed  into  oblivion.  The  two  principals  could  not 
take  quite  this  view;  but  they  consented  to  be  friends,  to 
wish  each  other  well,  and  to  say  nothing  about  the  under- 
lying contempt  which  each  could  not  but  entertain  for  the 
other's  fickleness.  For  Jeremy  would  have  been  faithful 
if  Dora  had  been,  and  Dora  could  not  perceive  how  the 
fact  of  her  having  made  a  mistake  as  to  her  own  feelings 
explained  the  extraordinary  rapidity  with  which  Jeremy 
had  been  able  to  transfer  an  affection  professedly  so  last- 
ing and  so  deep.  Christine  warned  her  that  all  men  were 
like  that — except  Mr.  Mallam;  and  Grantley  told  Jeremy 
that  Dora  was  flighty,  as  all  girls  were — except  Eva  Ray- 
more.  So  peace,  though  not  very  cordial  peace,  was  ob- 
tained, the  satirical  remarks  which  the  parties  felt  entitled 
to  make  privately  not  appearing  on  the  face  of  the  formal 
proceedings. 

3»3 


384  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Important  though  these  matters  might  be,  they  were  not 
in  Sibylla's  mind  as  she  stood  at  the  end  of  the  garden  and 
looked  down  on  Old  Mill  House.  Twenty-four  hours  be- 
fore, Mrs.  Mumple  had  started  on  her  journey.  Sibylla, 
Eva,  and  Jeremy  had  escorted  her  to  Fairhaven.  The  fat 
old  woman  was  very  apprehensive  and  tremulous;  anxious 
about  her  looks  and  the  fit  of  her  new  silk  gown;  full  of 
questionings  about  the  meeting  to  which  she  went.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  smile  covertly  at  some  of  these  manifesta- 
tions, but  over  them  all  shone  the  beauty  of  the  love  which 
had  sustained  her  through  the  years.  Sibylla  prayed  that 
now  it  might  have  its  reward,  half  wondering  that  it  had 
lived  to  claim  it — had  lived  so  long  in  solitude  and  un- 
comforted.  It  had  never  despaired,  however  long  the 
waiting,  however  much  it  was  starved  of  all  satisfaction, 
bereft  of  all  pleasure,  condemned  to  seeming  uselessness, 
even  unwelcomed,  as  one  well  might  fear.  These  things 
had  brought  pain  and  fear,  but  not  despair  nor  death.  Yet 
Mrs.  Mumple  was  not  by  nature  a  patient  woman;  natu- 
rally she  craved  a  full  return  for  what  she  gave,  and 
an  ardent  answer  to  the  warmth  of  her  affection.  None 
the  less  she  had  not  despaired;  and  as  Sibylla  thought 
of  this,  she  accused  herself  because,  unlike  the  old  woman, 
she  had  allowed  herself  to  despair — nay,  had  been  ready, 
almost  eager,  to  do  it,  had  twisted  everything  into  a  justi- 
fication for  it,  had  made  no  protest  against  it  and  no 
effort  to  avoid  it.  That  mood  had  led  to  ruin;  at  last  she 
saw  that  it  would  have  been  ruin.  Was  there  now  hope  ? 
It  was  difficult  to  go  back,  to  retrace  the  steps  so  con- 
fidently taken,  to  realise  that  she  too  had  been  wrong. 

Yet  what  else  was  the  lesson?  It  came  to  her  in  one 
form  or  another  from  every  side — from  the  Courtlands, 
where  death  alone  had  been  strong  enough  to  thwart  the 
evil  fate ;  from  the  Raymores,  where  trust,  bruised  but  not 


LIFE  AND  LIGHT  3^5 

broken,  had  redeemed  a  boy's  life  from  evil  to  good;  even 
from  Christine,  who  waited  in  secret  hope ;  above  all,  from 
the  quarter  whence  she  had  least  looked  for  it — from 
Grantley  himself,  for  whom  no  effort  was  too  great,  who 
never  lost  confidence,  who  had  indeed  lacked  understand- 
ing but  had  never  lacked  courage;  who  now,  with  eyes 
opened  and  at  her  bidding,  was  endeavouring  the  hardest 
thing  a  man  can  do — was  trying  to  change  himself,  to  look 
at  himself  with  another's  eyes,  to  remodel  himself  by  a 
new  standard,  to  count  as  faults  what  he  had  cherished  as 
virtues,  to  put  in  the  foremost  place  not  the  qualities  which 
had  been  his  pets,  his  favourites,  his  ideals,  but  those  which 
another  asked  from  him,  and  which  he  must  do  himself  a 
violence  to  display.  Had  she  no  corresponding  effort  to 
make?  She  could  not  deny  the  accusation.  It  lay  with 
her  also  to  try.  But  it  was  hard.  John  Fanshaw  found 
it  sorely  difficult,  grossly  against  his  prejudices,  and  even 
in  conflict  with  principles  which  he  held  sacred,  to  belittle 
his  grievance  or  to  let  it  go.  Sibylla  was  very  fond  of  her 
grievances  too.  She  was  asked  to  look  at  them  with  new 
eyes,  to  think  of  them  no  more  as  outrages,  as  stones  of 
stumbling  and  rocks  of  offence.  She  was  asked  to  consider 
her  grievances  as  opportunities.  That  was  the  plain  truth 
about  it,  and  it  involved  so  much  recantation,  such  a  turn- 
ing upside  down  of  old  notions,  such  a  fall  for  pride.  It 
was  very  hard  to  swallow.  Yet  unless  it  were  swallowed, 
where  was  hope?  And  if  it  were  swallowed,  what  did  it 
mean?  An  experiment — only  another  difficult  experiment. 
For  people  are  not  changed  readily,  and  cannot  be  changed 
altogether.  Difficulties  would  remain — would  remain  al- 
ways; the  vain  ideal  which  had  once  governed  all  her  acts 
and  thoughts  would  never  be  realised.  She  must  not  be 
under  any  delusion  as  to  that. 

She  turned  to  find  Grantley  beside  her,  and  he  gave  her 


386  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

a  telegram  addressed  to  her.     She  opened  it  with  a  word 

of  thanks. 

"From  John  Fanshaw  I"  she  exclaimed  eagerly.  "He's 
coming  down  here  to-night!" 

"Well,  you  told  him  to  wire  whenever  he  found  he  could 
get  down,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  of  course.    But — but  what  does  it  mean?" 

He  smiled  at  her. 

"I'm  not  surprised.  Christine  had  a  letter  from  him 
this  morning.  I  saw  the  handwriting.  I'm  taking  a  very 
sympathetic  interest  in  Christine,  so  I  look  at  the  hand- 
writing on  her  letters.  And  she's  been  in  a  state  of  sup- 
pressed excitement  all  the  morning.  I've  noticed  that — 
with  a  sympathetic  interest,  Sibylla." 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go  and  see  her." 

"Not  just  yet,  please !  Oh,  yes,  I  hope  it'll  be  a  good 
day  for  her!  And  it'll  be  a  great  day  for  your  poor  old 
Mumples,  won't  it?  I  hope  Mr.  Mumple  will  behave 
nicely." 

"Oh,  so  do  I  with  my  whole  heart!"  cried  Sibylla. 

"I'm  taking  a  very  sympathetic  interest  in  the  Mumples 
also,  Sibylla.  Likewise  in  Dora  and  her  young  man,  and 
Jeremy  and  his  young  woman.  Oh,  and  in  the  Raymores 
and  Charley !    Anybody  else  ?" 

Sibylla  looked  at  him  reprovingly,  but  a  smile  would 
tremble  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"You  see,  I've  been  thinking  over  what  you  said  the 
other  day,"  Grantley  went  on  with  placid  gravity,  "and 
I've  made  up  my  mind  to  come  and  tell  you  whenever  I  do 
a  decent  thing  or  have  an  honest  emotion.  I  shan't  like 
saying  it  at  all,  but  you'll  like  hearing  it  awfully." 

"Some  people  would  be  serious  about  it,  considering — 
well,  considering  everything,"  Sibylla  remarked,  turning 
her  face  away. 


LIFE  AND  LIGHT  387 

"Yes,  but  then  they  wouldn't  see  you  smile — and  you've 
an  adorable  smile ;  and  they  wouldn't  see  the  flash  in  your 
eyes — and  you've  such  wonderful  eyes,  Sibylla." 

He  delivered  these  statements  with  a  happy  simplicity. 

"You're  not  imposing  on  me,"  she  said.  "I  know  you 
mean  it."  Her  voice  trembled  just  a  little.  "And  perhaps 
that's  the  best  way  to  tell  me." 

"On  the  other  hand,  I  shall  become  a  persistent  and  ac- 
complished hypocrite.  You'll  never  know  how  I  grind 
the  faces  of  the  poor  at  the  bank,  nor  my  inmost  thoughts 
when  Frank  drops  half  his  food  on  my  best  waistcoat." 

"You're  outrageous.     Please  stop,  Grantley." 

"All  right.     I'll  talk  about  something  else." 

"I  think  I'd  better  find  Christine.  No,  wait  a  minute. 
If  you're  going  to  do  all  these  fine  things,  what  have  you 
planned  for  me?" 

"Nothing.  You're  just  to  go  on  being  what  you  can't 
help  being — the  most  adorable  woman  in  England." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  to  do,  but  what  you  are 
doing  is " 

"Making  love  to  you,"  interposed  Grantley. 

"Yes,  and  in  the  most  unblushing  way." 

"I'm  doing  the  love-making,  and  you're  doing  the " 


"Stop  1"  she  commanded,  with  a  hasty  merry  glance  of 
protest. 

"You  ought  to  be  used  to  it.  I've  been  doing  it  for  a 
month  now,"  he  complained. 

Sibylla  made  no  answer,  and  Grantley  lit  a  cigarette. 
When  she  spoke  again  she  was  grave  and  her  voice  was 
low. 

"Don't  make  love  to  me.  I'm  afraid  to  love  you. 
You  know  what  I  did  before  because  I  loved  you.  I  should 
do  it  again,  I'm  afraid.     I  haven't  learnt  the  lesson." 

"Are  you  refusing  the  only  way  there  is  of  learning  it? 


388  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

How  have  I  learnt  all  the  fine  lessons  that  I've  been  telling 

you?" 

"I've  not  learnt  the  lesson.    I  still  ask  too  much." 

"If  I  give  all  I  have,  it'll  seem  enough  to  you.  You'll 
know  it's  all  now,  and  it'll  seem  enough.  All  there  is  is 
enough — even  for  you,  isn't  it?" 

"You  didn't  give  me  all  there  was  before." 

"I  had  a  theory,"  said  Grantley.  "I'm  not  going  to 
have  any  more  theories." 

She  turned  to  him  suddenly. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  ask — you  mustn't  stand  there  asking! 
That's  wrong,  that's  unworthy  of  you.  I  mustn't  let  you 
do  that." 

"That  was  the  theory,"  Grantley  said  with  a  smile. 
"That  was  just  my  theory.  I'm  always  going  to  ask  for 
what  I  want  now.    It's  really  the  best  way." 

"We're  friends,  Grantley?"  she  said  imploringly. 

"Is  that  all  there  is?    Would  it  seem  to  you  enough?" 

"And  we've  Frank.    You  do  love  him  now,  you  know." 

"In  and  through  you." 

She  made  no  answer  again.  He  stood  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her  for  some  moments.  Then  he  took  the  tele- 
gram gently  from  her  hand  and  went  into  the  house  with 
it,  to  seek  Christine  Fanshaw. 

He  left  Sibylla  in  a  turmoil  of  feeling.  That  she  loved 
him  was  nothing  new;  she  had  always  loved  him,  and  she 
had  never  loved  any  other  man  in  that  fashion.  The  fairy 
ride  had  never  been  rivalled  nor  repeated;  and  she  had 
never  lost  her  love  for  him,  even  when  she  hated  him  as 
her  great  enemy.  It  had  always  been  there,  whether  its 
presence  had  been  prized  or  loathed,  welcomed  or  feared; 
whether  it  had  seemed  the  one  thing  life  held,  or  the  one 
thing  to  escape  from  if  life  were  to  be  worthy.  Blake  had 
not  displaced  it;  he  had  been  a  refuge  from  it.     Her  case 


LIFE  AND  LIGHT  389 

was  not  as  Christine  Fanshaw's,  any  more  than  her  temper 
was  the  temper  of  her  friend.  And  now  he  came  wooing 
again,  and  she  was  sore  beset.  So  memory  helped  him, 
so  the  unforgettable  communion  of  bygone  love  enforced 
his  suit.  Her  heart  was  all  for  yielding — how  should  it 
not  be  to  the  one  man  whose  sway  it  had  ever  owned? 
He  was  to  her  mind  an  incomparable  wooer — incom- 
parable in  his  bouyant  courage,  in  the  humour  that  masked 
his  passion,  in  the  passion  which  used  humour  with  such 
a  conscious  art,  feigning  to  conceal  without  concealing, 
pretending  to  reveal  without  impairing  the  secrecy  of 
those  impenetrable  sweet  recesses  of  the  heart,  concern- 
ing which  conjecture  beats  knowledge  and  the  imagina- 
tion would  not  be  trammeled  by  a  disclosure  too  unre- 
served. But  she  feared  and,  fearing,  struggled.  They 
were  friends.  Friends  could  make  terms,  bargains,  treat- 
ies, arrangements.  Friendship  did  not  bar  independence, 
absolute  and  uninfringed.  Was  that  the  way  with 
love — with  the  love  of  woman  for  man,  of  wife  for 
husband?  No,  old  Nature  came  in  there  with  her  un- 
changing decisive  word,  against  which  no  bargain  and  no 
terms,  no  theory  and  no  views,  no  claims  or  pretensions, 
no  folly  and  no  wisdom  either,  could  prevail.  All  said 
and  done,  all  concessions  made,  all  promises  pledged,  all 
demands  guaranteed,  they  all  went  for  little.  The  woman 
was  left  to  depend  on  the  trust  she  had,  helpless  if  the  trust 
failed  her  and  the  confidence  were  misplaced.  If  she  were 
wrong  about  herself  or  about  the  man,  there  was  no  help 
for  it.  The  love  of  the  woman  was,  after  all  and  in  spite 
of  all,  surrender.  Times  might  change,  and  thoughts,  and 
theories;  this  might  be  right  which  had  been  wrong,  and 
that  held  wrong  which  had  been  accounted  right.  The 
accidents  varied,  the  essence  remained.  The  love  of  the 
woman  was  surrender,  because  old  Nature  would  have  it 


39o  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

so.  If  she  gave  such  love — or  acknowledged  it,  for  in 
truth  it  was  given — she  abandoned  all  the  claims,  the 
grievances,  the  wrongs,  all  that  had  been  the  basis  of  what 
she  had  done.  She  took  Grantley  on  faith  again,  she  put 
herself  into  his  hands,  again  she  made  the  great  venture 
with  all  its  possibilities.  She  had  seemed  wrong  once. 
Would  she  seem  wrong  again  ? 

There  was  a  change  in  him:  that  she  believed.  Was 
there  a  change  too  in  her?  Unless  there  were,  she  did  not 
dare  to  venture.  Had  all  that  she  had  suffered,  all  that 
she  had  seen  others  suffer,  brought  nothing  to  her?  Yes, 
there  was  something.  When  you  loved  you  must  under- 
stand, and,  knowing  the  truth,  love  that  or  leave  it.  You 
must  not  make  an  image  and  love  that,  then  make  another 
image  and  hate  that.  You  must  love  or  leave  the  true 
thing.  And  to  do  that  there  is  needed  another  surrender 
— of  your  point  of  view,  your  own  ideas  of  what  you  are 
and  how  you  ought  to  be  treated.  To  get  great  things  you 
must  barter  great  things  in  return.  There  are  seldom 
cheap  bargains  to  be  had  in  costly  goods.  Had  not  Grant- 
ley  learnt  that?  Could  not  she?  It  took  generosity  to 
learn  it.  Was  she  less  generous  than  Grantley?  The 
question  hit  her  like  a  blow.  If  Grantley  had  done  as  she 
had,  would  she  still  have  loved,  would  she  have  come  again 
to  seek  and  to  woo?  Ah,  but  the  case  was  not  truly 
parallel !  Grantley  sought  leave  to  reign  again — to  reign 
by  her  will,  but  still  to  reign.  That  was  not  what  was 
asked  of  her. 

Was  it  not?  Eagerly  stretching  out  after  truth,  seeking 
the  bedrock  of  deep  truth,  her  mind  spurred  by  its  need, 
soared  above  these  distinctions,  and  saw,  as  in  a  vision, 
the  union  of  these  transient  opposites.  Was  not  to  reign 
well  to  serve  well,  was  not  faithfully  to  obey  the  order  of 
the  universe  to  be  a  king  of  life?     If  that  vision  would 


LIFE  AND  LIGHT  391 

abide  with  her,  if  that  harmony  could  be  sustained,  then  all 
would  be  well.  The  doubts  and  fears  would  die,  and  the 
surrender  be  a  great  conquest.  When  she  had  tried  be- 
fore, she  had  no  such  idea  as  this.  Much  had  been  spent, 
much  given,  in  attaining  to  the  distant  sight  of  it.  But  if 
it  were  true?  If  Grantley,  ever  courageous,  ever  un- 
daunted, had  won  his  way  to  it  and  now  came,  in  a  sup- 
pliant's guise,  to  show  her  and  to  give  her  the  treasures 
of  a  queen? 

While  she  still  mused,  the  little  boy  came  toddling  over 
the  lawn  to  her  side,  holding  up  a  toy  for  her  interest  and 
admiration.  She  caught  him  up  and  held  him  in  her  arms. 
Had  he  nothing  to  say  to  it  all?  Had  he  nothing  to  say? 
Why,  his  eyes  were  like  the  eyes  of  Grantley ! 

The  clock  of  the  old  church  struck  five,  and  on  the 
sound  a  cab  appeared  over  the  crest  of  the  opposite  hill. 
Sibylla,  with  Frank  in  her  arms,  watched  its  descent  to 
Milldean,  and  then  went  into  the  house  to  put  on  her  hat. 
In  view  of  the  ancient  love  between  her  and  Mumples,  it 
was  her  privilege  to  be  the  first  to  greet  the  returned  wan- 
derer. For  all  her  sympathy,  Kate  Raymore  was  a  friend 
of  too  recent  standing — she  had  not  witnessed  the  years  of 
waiting.  Jeremy's  affection  was  true  enough,  but  Mumples 
feared  the  directness  of  his  tongue  and  the  exuberance  of 
his  spirits.  Highly  conscious  of  the  honour  done  to  her, 
somewhat  alarmed  at  the  threatened  appeal  to  her  ever 
too  ready  emotion,  Sibylla  went  down  the  hill. 

A  pale  frail  old  student  with  the  hands  of  a  labouring 
man — that  was  her  first  impression  of  Mumples'  husband. 
He  had  the  air  of  remoteness  from  the  world  and  of  hav- 
ing done  with  the  storms  of  life  which  comes  to  men  who 
have  lived  many  years  in  a  library;  his  face  was  lined,  but 
his  eyes  calm  and  placid.  Only  those  incongruous  hands 
with  their  marks  of  toil  hinted  at  the  true  story.     He 


392  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

spoke  In  a  low  voice,  as  though  it  might  be  an  offence  to 
speak  loud;  his  tones  were  refined  and  his  manner  respect- 
ful and  rather  formal.  It  was  evidently  unsafe  to  make 
any  parade  of  sympathy  with  Mumples — she  was  near 
breaking-point;  but  the  exchange  of  a  glance,  on  which 
Sibylla  ventured,  showed  that  her  agitation  was  of  joy  and 
satisfaction.  Evidently  the  meeting  had  disappointed  the 
worst  of  her  fears  and  confirmed  the  dearest  of  her  hopes. 

"I  have  to  thank  you,  madame,"  the  old  man  said,  "for 
the  great  kindness  you  and  your  family  have  shown  to  my 
wife  during  my  absence." 

"We  owe  her  far  more  than  she  owes  us.  I  don't  know 
what  we  should  have  done  without  her." 

"The  knowledge  that  she  had  good  friends  did  much  to 
enable  me  to  endure  my  absence,"  he  went  on.  "She's 
looking  well,  is  she  not,  madame?  She  appears  to  me  less 
changed  than  I  had  thought  possible." 

Sibylla  could  not  resist  another  quick  glance  at  Mum- 
ples. 

"And  I  haven't  seen  her  for  ten  years." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  Sibylla  in  a  questioning 
way. 

"Don't  worry  any  more  about  that,  Luke,"  said  Mrs. 
Mumple  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "You  knew  what 
suited  you  best.  What  was  the  good  of  my  coming,  if  it 
wasn't  to  be  a  comfort  to  you?" 

"It  was  selfish  of  me,  madame;  but  you've  no  idea  what 
it  is  to  be  in — in  such  circumstances  as  I  was.  I've  been 
unfortunately  a  man  of  quick  temper,  and  I  couldn't  trust 
myself  in  all  cases.  I  got  beside  myself  if  I  was  reminded 
of  the  outside  world — of  all  I  was  losing — how  the  years 
went  by — of  my  wife,  and  the  home  and  the  life  I  might 
have  had.  It  was  because  I  loved  her  that  I  wouldn't  see 
her " 


LIFE  AND  LIGHT  393 

"Yes,  yes,  I'm  sure  of  that,"  said  Sibylla  hastily. 

"But  it  was  selfish,  as  love  sometimes  is,  madame.  I 
ought  to  have  put  her  first.  And  I  never  thought  what  it 
would  mean  to  her  when  I  did  what  brought  me  to  that 
place.  Well,  I've  paid  for  it  with  my  life.  They've  taken 
my  life  from  me." 

"You've  many  years  before  you,  dear,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Mumple. 

"I  have  so  few  behind  me,"  he  said.  "They've  blotted 
out  two-thirds  of  my  life.  Looking  back  on  it  now,  I  can't 
see  it  as  it  was.  It  seems  long,  but  very  empty — a  great 
vacant  space  in  my  life,  madame."  ' 

"Ah,  but  you've  your  home  and  your  dear  wife  now — 
and  we  shall  all  Le  your  friends." 

How  dull  and  cold  her  words  seemed !  Yet  what  else 
was  there  to  say  in  face  of  the  tragedy? 

"I'm  deeply  grateful  to  her  and  to  Heaven;  but  I — I 
have  nothing  left.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  years  have 
taken  everything." 

Mrs.  Mumple  put  her  hand  down  to  his  worn  hand  and 
caressed  it. 

"You'll  be  better  by-and-by,  dear,"  she  said. 

"I'm  deadened,"  he  persisted  sadly. 

"Don't  feel  like  that,"  Sibylla  implored.  "Your  life 
will  come  back  to  you  in  the  sunshine  and  the  country  air. 
We  shan't  let  you  feel  like  that.  Why,  it's  full  of  life 
here.  There's  a  wedding  to-morrow,  Mr.  Mumple !  And 
another  engaged  couple — my  brother  and  Miss  Raymore ! 
And  you'll  like  my  husband,  and  I'll  bring  my  baby  boy  to 


see  you." 


"Such  a  pretty  little  dear!"  exclaimed  Mumples. 

"You  must  take  an  interest  in  us,"  smiled  Sibylla;  "and 
then  you'll  be  pleased  when  we  are — won't  he,  Mumples  ? 
Because  you're  to  be  one  of  us,  just  as  your  wife  is." 


394  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

Mrs.  Mumple  suddenly  turned  away  and,  murmuring 
something  about  getting  tea,  escaped  from  the  room.  The 
old  man  fixed  his  eyes  on  Sibylla's  face  in  a  long  inquiring 
gaze. 

"You  say  that  to  me,  madame?  I  don't  deserve  to  have 
that  said  to  me.  You're  a  beautiful  young  lady,  and  very 
kind,  I  know,  and  good,  I'm  sure.  Your  husband  is  lucky, 
and  so  is  your  son.  But  I've  been  a  convict  for  seventeen 
years,  and  it's  only  by  a  chance  that  I'm  not  a  murderer. 
I'm  not  fit  to  come  near  you  or  yours — no,  not  near  your 
little  boy." 

Sibylla  came  to  him  and  took  his  work-worn  hand.  He 
saw  that  she  meant  to  kiss  it  and  held  it  back. 

"A  convict  and  in  heart  a  murderer,  madame,"  he  said, 
his  lips  trembling  a  little  and  his  calm  eyes  very  sad.  "I'm 
not  fit  for  you  to  touch." 

"I'll  tell  you  something,"  said  Sibylla.  "You  call  me 
kind  and  good — you  say  my  husband  and  my  boy  are 
lucky,  and  you  tell  me  you're  not  fit  for  me  to  touch — for 
me  to  touch !  I  tried  to  run  away  from  my  husband,  and  I 
was  ready  to  leave  my  little  boy  to  his  death." 

A  great  wonder  came  into  the  old  man's  eyes ;  he  asked 
no  question,  but  he  ceased  to  resist  her  persuading  grasp. 
She  raised  his  hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"I  thought  my  heart  was  dead,  as  you  think  yours  is. 
But  light  and  life  have  come  back  into  mine,  and  you 
mustn't  shut  yours  against  them.  You  must  try  to  be 
happy,  if  it's  only  for  dear  old  Mumples'  sake.  She's 
thought  of  nothing  but  making  you  happy  all  these  years." 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "And  love  us  too. 
For  my  husband's  and  my  boy's  sake  keep  the  secret 
I've  told  you,  but  remember  it  when  you  feel  despairing. 
It  wasn't  easy  for  me  to  speak  of  it,  but  I  thought 
it  would  give  you  hope ;  and  it  will  prevent  you  feeling  the 


LIFE  AND  LIGHT  395 

sort  of  thing  you  have  felt  about  me,  and  I  hope  about  any 
of  us." 

He  turned  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"You're  telling  me  the  truth,  I  know,  madame,"  he  said 
slowly.  "It's  a  very  strange  world.  I'll  try  not  to  de- 
spair." 

"No,  no,  don't  despair;  above  all,  don't  despair," 
whispered  Sibylla. 

"I  have  a  remnant  of  my  days,  and  I  have  the  love  of 
my  wife.  God  has  left  me  something  out  of  the  wreck 
that  I've  made." 

Sibylla  stooped  and  kissed  him  on  the  brow.  He  caught 
her  hands  and  looked  again  in  her  eyes  for  a  long  time. 

"It  is  true?  And  your  eyes  are  like  the  eyes  of  an 
angel!" 

He  relaxed  his  hold  on  her,  and  sank  back  in  his  chair 
with  a  sigh. 

"I'm  tiring  you,"  said  Sibylla.  "I'll  go  now,  and  leave 
you  alone  with  Mumples.  I'll  call  her  back  here.  No,  I 
can't  stay  to  tea — you've  made  me  think  of  too  much.  But 
I'll  come  to-morrow  and  bring  my  little  boy." 

"If  what  you  say  is  true,  you  must  pray  for  yourself 
sometimes?    Pray  for  me  too,  madame." 

"Yes,  I'll  pray  for  you  the  prayer  I  love  best:  'Those 
things  which  for  our  unworthiness  we  dare  not  and  for  our 
blindness  we  cannot  ask  — '  I  will  pray  for  those,  fof 
you  and  for  me.  And  because  you're  an  old  man  and  have 
suffered,  you  shall  give  me  your  blessing  before  I  go." 

She  knelt  to  receive  his  trembling  benediction,  then  rose 
with  a  glad  smile  on  her  face.  She  saw  Mumples  standing 
now  on  the  threshold  of  the  room,  and  kissed  her  hand  to 
her. 

"The  old  is  done,  and  the  new  is  begun,"  she  said  to  the 
old  man  as  she  pressed  his  hand  in  farewell. 


396  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

She  walked  slowly  up  the  hill  in  the  peaceful  dusk. 
Lights  burned  in  the  church:  the  village  choir  was  labori- 
ously practising  an  ambitious  effort  for  the  next  day. 
There  were  lights  in  the  windows  over  the  post-office ;  one 
was  open  to  the  mild  evening  air,  and  Jeremy's  voice  in  a 
love-ballad  competed  enviously  with  the  choir's  more  pious 
strains,  till  it  was  drowned  in  a  merry  protest  of  youthful 
shouts.  When  she  reached  home,  there  was  a  light  in  the 
nursery,  and  the  nurse  was  singing  softly  to  the  little  boy. 
Her  agitation  was  past,  her  emotion  was  gentle  now,  and 
her  face  peacefully  radiant.  Her  grievances  seemed  small 
beside  the  old  man's  suffering,  her  woes  nothing  beside  his 
punishment,  her  return  to  life  and  light  so  much  easier  than 
his.  He  had  but  a  remnant  of  life  left — the  rest  had  been 
demanded  of  him  in  ransom  for  his  deed,  and  the  ransom 
had  been  exacted  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  He  was  poor, 
though  not  destitute;  but  she  was  rich.  Her  life  lay  still 
before  her  with  all  its  meaning  and  its  possibilities — its 
work  and  its  struggles,  its  successes  and  its  failures,  the 
winning  of  more  victories,  the  effort  and  the  resolve  not  to 
lose  what  had  been  so  hardly  won.  Soberly  she  looked  for- 
ward to  it,  assessing  and  measuring  her  strength  and  weak- 
ness and  the  strength  and  weakness  of  those  with  whom 
her  life  was  cast.  She  had  no  more  of  the  blind  and  reck- 
less confidence  of  her  first  essay;  her  eyes  were  open.  Her 
knowledge  did  not  forbid  her  soul  reaching  out  to  the  joy 
that  was  to  come,  but  it  whispered  that  the  joy  was  not  all, 
and  that  the  joy  must  be  fairly  won.  Yet  she  welcomed  the 
joy  with  the  innate  ardour  of  her  mind,  exultant  that  now 
she  might  take  it,  that  now  it  could  prove  no  delusion  be- 
cause she  had  learnt  wherein  lay  the  truth  of  it.  The  clue 
was  in  her  fingers.  The  path  might  be  rough  sometimes, 
uphill  sometimes,  not  all  in  pleasant  valleys  and  soft  be- 
guiling scenes;  there  would  be  arid  tracts,  perhaps,  and 


LIFE  AND  LIGHT  397 

bleak  uplands.  Such  was  the  Way  of  Life ;  she  recognised 
it  now.  The  clue  was  in  her  hand,  and  though  she  might 
be  weary,  though  she  might  stumble,  she  would  not  be 
utterly  lost  or  belated. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-NINE 

WITH    OPEN    EYES 

SIBYLLA  had  allotted  to  Christine  a  small  sitting- 
room  on  the  first  floor  of  the  house  to  be  her  private 
resort  during  her  visit;  they  neither  of  them  liked  a 
drawing-room  existence  all  day  long.  Here  Christine  sat 
waiting  John  Fanshaw's  arrival.  She  had  taken  much 
thought  wherewithal  she  should  be  clothed,  but  that  was 
rather  the  instinct  which  asserted  itself  in  her  on  any  occa- 
sion of  moment  than  a  token  of  confidence  in  the  weapon 
of  becoming  apparel.  A  fair  appearance  was  never  to  be 
wholly  neglected  by  the  wise,  but  she  did  not  rely  on  it 
now.  The  most  that  any  charming  could  do  would  be  to 
extort  a  passing  admiration,  which  in  its  turn  might  secure 
a  transient  forgiveness;  but  a  reaction  of  feeling  would 
surely  wait  on  it.  She  did  not  want  to  be  forgiven  in  that 
way.  In  truth  she  hardly  wanted  forgiveness  at  all ;  at  any 
rate  she  would  greatly  dislike  the  process.  She  had  been 
put  in  the  corner,  as  she  said.  The  position  was  not  pleas- 
ant; but  being  called  out  again  with  the  admonitions  suita- 
ble to  the  moment  was  scarcely  a  more  agreeable  situation. 
By  parting  her  from  him,  first  in  spirit,  then  in  daily  life, 
John  had  hardened  her  heart  toward  him.  He  had  made 
her  dwell  more  and  more  not  on  her  sin,  but  on  his  right 
to  inflict  a  penalty.  More  and  more  she  had  remembered 
what  Caylesham  had  said,  and  had  asked  if  he  who  bene- 
fited by  the  act — of  his  own  will  benefited  by  it — had  any 
title  to  despise  the  hand  which  was  guilty  of  it.  John's 
distress,  his  doubts,  struggles,  and  forlornness,  had  pleaded 
against  this  judgment  of  him  while  she  was  with  him.  The 

398 


WITH   OPEN  EYES  399 

idea  of  them  had  grown  faint  with  absence;  John  had  left 
himself  to  be  dealt  with  by  reason  then,  and  reason  saw 
only  what  he  had  done ;  the  eye  could  no  longer  trace  the 
sorrow  and  the  struggle  which  had  gone  with  his  deed. 

Her  mind  was  on  Caylesham  too.  She  had  just  read  a 
letter  from  Anna  Selford.  It  was  full  of  Anna  and  her 
frocks  (Much  advice  was  needed — when  was  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw  coming  back  to  town?).  It  had  a  good  deal  to  say 
of  Blake  and  his  handsome  presents;  and  it  touched  on 
Caylesham  with  a  rather  acrimonious  note.  He  had  been 
to  see  them,  and  had  not  made  himself  very  agreeable; 
really  Anna  did  not  see  that  there  was  anything  to  criticise, 
nor,  above  all,  that  Lord  Caylesham  had  any  call  to  set  up 
as  a  critic  if  there  were.  Christine  smiled  over  the  passage, 
picturing  so  well  the  secret  irony  and  the  intangible  banter 
which  Caylesham  would  mingle  with  his  congratulations 
and  infuse  into  his  praises.  Anna  would  not  shrink  nor 
retreat,  but  she  would  be  angry  and  rather  helpless  before 
the  sting  of  these  slender  darts.  Memories  stamped  on 
her  very  soul  stood  out  in  salient  letters,  and  the  face  of 
Caylesham  seemed  to  hang  in  the  air  before  her  eyes.  To 
remember  loving  is  not  to  love,  but  it  may  make  all  other 
love  seem  a  second-rate  thing.  She  loved  Caylesham  no 
longer,  but  she  was  without  power  to  love  anyone  as  she 
had  loved  him.  Others  had  his  vices,  others  his  virtues 
such  as  they  were.  The  blend  in  him  had  been  for  her  the 
thing  her  soul  asked.  Time  could  not  wither  the  remem- 
brance, though  it  had  killed  the  feeling  itself.  Not  John's 
displeasure  was  the  greatest  price  she  had  paid;  not  John's 
forgiveness  could  undo  or  blot  out  the  past.  John's  friend- 
ship and  comradeship  were  the  best  thing  the  world  had  to 
offer  her  now — and  she  wanted  them ;  but  she  wanted  them 
not  as  the  best,  but  because  there  was  nothing  better. 

She  had  no  thought  of  blame  for  Caylesham,  nor  of  bit- 


400  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

terness  against  him.  Here  her  fairness  of  mind  came  in — 
her  true  judgment  of  herself.  All  along  she  had  known 
what  he  was  and  what  he  gave,  as  well  as  what  she  was  and 
gave.  He  had  given  all  he  had  ever  professed  to  give. 
(She  was  not  thinking  of  words  or  phrases,  but  of  the  es- 
sence of  the  attachment,  well  known  to  both.)  If  it  had 
not  been  all  she  sought,  still  she  had  accepted  it  as  enough 
— as  enough  to  make  her  happy,  enough  return  for  all  she 
had  to  offer.  She  would  not  repudiate  the  bargain  now. 
Frank  had  been  straight  and  fair  with  her,  and  she  would 
cast  no  stone  at  him.  Only  it  was  just  very  unlucky  that 
matters  should  fall  out  in  the  way  they  had,  and  that  she 
should  be  the  sort  of  person  she  was — a  bad  sinner,  because 
she  could  not  minimise  nor  forget — a  bad  penitent,  be- 
cause she  could  not  feel  remorse  that  the  fault  had  been 
committed,  nor  humbly  seek  forgiveness  for  it.  It  had 
abided  with  her  always — now  as  a  pleasure,  now  as  a 
threatening  danger,  as  both  together  sometimes.  Even  at 
this  moment  it  was  at  once  the  cause  of  all  her  sorrow  and 
her  greatest  solace  in  the  world. 

Yet  in  the  days  between  the  end  of  her  love  for  Cayle- 
sham  and  the  discovery  which  had  been  made  by  John 
there  had  been  another  happiness — when  she  was  on  good 
terms  with  her  old  friend  John,  when  things  went  well 
with  them,  when  he  admired  her — yes,  when  he  treated 
her  as  something  precious,  clever,  and  brilliant.  Then 
she  had  rejoiced  in  his  pride  in  her,  and  given  of  the  best 
she  had  to  preserve  and  to  strengthen  it.  Now,  in  resent- 
ment against  John,  she  sought  to  deny  this.  But  in  what 
mood  would  John  come?  The  maintenance  of  her  denial 
depended  largely  on  that. 

Suddenly  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  stopping  before 
the  gate  of  the  house.     She  sat  erect  and  listened.     The 


WITH  OPEN  EYES  401 

hall-door  opened.  She  waited  till  she  heard  it  close  again, 
then  sprang  up,  cast  a  glance  at  a  looking-glass  over  the 
mantelpiece,  then  turned  and  faced  the  door.  Her  lips 
were  a  little  parted;  she  stood  very  still.  Expectation 
mingled  with  defiance  in  her  bearing.  A  few  minutes 
passed  before  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  cleared 
her  throat  to  cry : 

"Come  in!" 

John  entered  and  closed  the  door  carefully  behind  him ; 
but  he  did  not  advance  toward  her  at  once.  He  stood 
where  he  was,  with  a  curious  deprecatory  smile  on  his  face. 
She  thought  he  looked  rather  old  and  worn,  and  he  was 
shabbily  dressed,  as  his  habit  was  when  he  had  to  look 
after  his  own  wardrobe  without  advice  and  criticism.  He 
carried  the  sense  of  forlornness,  as  he  had  when  he  sat  with 
Caylesham's  cheque  before  him,  and  the  air  of  being 
ashamed  too.  But  his  manner  gave  now  no  hint  of  anger. 
Christine's  heart  went  out  to  him  in  a  quick  impulse  of 
sympathy;  but  she  crushed  the  feeling  down,  and  would 
give  no  outward  sign  of  it.  She  waited  in  stillness  and 
silence.  It  was  for  him  to  speak,  for  him  to  set  the  note 
of  their  interview,  and  of  more  than  their  interview — of 
their  future  life,  and  of  how  they  were  to  be  to  one  an- 
other henceforward. 

"Here  I  am,  Christine.  Mrs.  Grantley  told  me  I  should 
find  you  in  this  room;  and  here  I  am." 

She  nodded  her  head  coolly,  but  gave  him  no  other  wel- 
come. He  came  two  or  three  steps  toward  her,  holding 
out  his  hands  in  front  of  him  in  an  awkward  way,  and  with 
that  ashamed  pleading  smile  still  on  his  lips. 

"I  can't  get  on  without  my  old  girl,"  he  said. 

In  a  flash  of  her  quick  intuition  she  knew  his  mind.  The 
one  sentence  revealed  anything  which  his  manner  had  left 
doubtful.     He  was  doing  what  he  thought  wrong,  and 


402  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

doing  it  because  he  could  not  help  it.  He  was  abandoning 
a  great  and  just  grievance,  and  thereby  seemed  to  be  sacri- 
ficing the  claims  of  morality,  condoning  what  deserved  no 
forgiveness,  impairing  his  own  self-respect.  His  position, 
with  all  its  obvious  weakness,  had  not  become  untenable 
in  theory,  and  his  reason,  hard-bound  in  preconceptions, 
was  not  convinced.  He  came  under  the  stress  of  feeling, 
because  his  life  had  become  intolerable,  because,  as  he  said 
in  one  of  his  phrases  of  rough  affection,  he  could  not  get 
on  without  his  old  girl.  The  need  he  had  of  her  conquered 
the  grievance  that  he  had  against  her,  and  brought  him 
back  to  her.  He  came  with  no  reproaches,  no  parade  of 
forgiveness,  with  neither  references  to  the  past  nor  terms 
for  the  future. 

It  was  a  triumph  for  Christine,  and  of  the  kind  she 
prized  and  understood  best — a  woman's  triumph.  It  had 
not  been  expected ;  it  was  none  too  well  deserved.  A  colour 
came  on  her  cheeks,  and  she  breathed  rather  quickly  as  she 
realised  the  completeness  of  it.  For  a  moment  she  was 
minded  to  use  it  to  the  full,  and,  since  she  was  no  longer 
the  criminal,  to  play  the  tyrant  in  her  turn.  But  the  very 
perfection  of  the  victory  forbade.  It  inspired  in  her  a 
feeling  which  reproaches  would  have  been  powerless  to 
raise — a  great  pity  for  him,  a  new  and  more  genuine  con- 
demnation of  herself.  Had  she  been  so  much  as  that  to 
him,  and  yet  had  used  him  so  ill? 

"I've  been  lonely  too,  John,"  she  said.  "Come  and  kiss 
me,  my  dear." 

He  came  to  her  diffidently,  and  hardly  touched  her  cheek 
when  he  kissed  her. 

"That  doesn't  feel  a  bit  like  you,  John,"  she  said  with 
a  nervous  laugh,  as  she  made  him  sit  by  her  on  the  sofa. 
"Now  tell  me  all  about  everything!  I  know  that's  what 
you  want  to  do." 


WITH  OPEN  EYES  403 

That  was  what  he  wanted  to  do — to  take  her  back  into 
the  life  which  was  so  empty  and  incomplete  without  her — 
to  have  her  again  to  share  his  interests  and  to  be  a  partner 
in  his  fortunes.  Yet  for  the  moment  he  could  not  do  as  she 
bade  him.  He  was  much  moved,  and  was  very  unready 
at  expressing  emotion.  He  sat  in  silence,  gently  caressing 
her  hand.    It  was  she  who  spoke. 

"Of  course  there's  a  lot  to  say;  but  don't  let's  say  it, 
John.  You'll  know  I'm  feeling  it,  and  I  shall  know  that 
about  you  too.  But  don't  let's  say  it."  She  broke  into  a 
smile  again.  "I  should  argue,  you  know — I  always  argue ! 
And  then —  But  if  we  say  nothing  about  it,  perhaps 
we — well,  perhaps  we  can  nearly  forget  it,  and  take  up  the 
old  life  where  we  broke  it  off.  And  it  wasn't  a  bad  old 
life,  after  all,  was  it,  in  spite  of  the  way  we  both  grum- 
bled?" 

"My  dear  old  girl !"  he  murmured. 

"I  suppose  you  must  be  as  vulgar  as  you  like  to-day!" 
said  Christine,  with  a  dainty  lift  of  her  brow  and  an  af- 
fected resignation.  Then  suddenly  she  turned  and  kissed 
him,  saying  gravely:  "I'm  grateful,  John,  and  don't — 
don't  think  there's  anything  wrong  in  being  generous." 

"I  only  know  I've  got  to  have  you  back  with  me,"  he 
said.    "That's  all  I  know  about  it  anyhow." 

"I  think  it's  enough,  then,"  she  whispered  softly. 

Presently  the  gates  of  John's  mouth  were  loosed,  and  he 
began  to  tell  all  his  news.  It  was  mainly  about  his  busi- 
ness— how  it  flourished,  how  he  had  built  up  his  credit 
again,  of  the  successes  he  had  won;  that  as  soon  as  he  had 
paid  off  his  debts — a  moment  of  embarrassment  befell  him 
here — they  would  be  as  well  off  as  ever  they  had  been; 
horses  could  be  bought  again,  the  diamonds  could  reap- 
pear, there  would  be  no  need  to  stint  Christine  of  any  of 
the  things  that  she  loved.     AH  that  he  had.  longed  for 


404  DOUBLE  HARNESS 

sympathetic  ears  to  hear  in  the  last  months  came  bubbling 
out  now.    And  Christine  was  ready  to  listen.    As  he  talked 
and  she  heard,  the  old  life  seemed  to  revive,  the  old  in- 
terests of  every  day  came  back,  exercised  anew  their  unit- 
ing power,  and  brought  with  them  the  old  friendship  and 
comradeship.     Christine  had  said  that  they  could  "nearly 
forget."    The  words  had  her  courage  in  them;  they  had 
her  caution  too.    To  forget  what  had  come  upon  them  and 
between   them  was    impossible — in    Christine's    obstinate 
heart  even  at  this  moment  hardly  desired ;  but  it  was  pos- 
sible nearly  to  forget — at  most  times  so  nearly  to  forget 
as  to  relegate  the  thing  to  some  distant  chamber  of  the 
heart  and  not  let  it  count  in  the  commerce  and  communion 
of  the  life  which  they  lived  together  and  which  bound  them 
to  one  another  with  all  its  ties.     That  was  the  best  thing 
which  could  be  looked  for,  since  the  past,  being  irrevocable 
in  deed,  is  also  not  to  be  forgotten  in  thought.    They  were 
picking  up  and  piecing  together  the  fragments.     The  ruin 
here  had  not  been  as  utter  as  it  had  at  poor  Tom  Court- 
land's,  where  the  same  process  was  being  undertaken ;  but 
there  had  been  a  crash,  and,  though  the  pieces  might  be 
joined,  there  would  be  marks  to  show  the  fracture.     Yet 
even  the  memory  that  refused  to  die  brought  its  good  with 
it.     After  the  ruin  came  the  love  which  had  in  the  end 
sought  restoration;  if  the  one  could  not  be  forgotten,  the 
other  would  always  claim  an  accompanying  remembrance. 
From  this  remembrance  there  might  well  emerge  an  affec- 
tion deeper,  stronger,  and  more  proof  against  the  worries 
and  the  friction  of  common  life  which  in  the  old  days  had 
so  often  disturbed  their  peace  and  interrupted  their  friend- 
ship. 

Before  dinner  Christine  found  an  opportunity  to  visit 
Sibylla  in  her  room.  Her  own  brief  excitement  and  agita- 
tion had  passed  off;  Sibylla  seemed  the  more  eager  of  the 


WITH  OPEN  EYES  405 

two  about  the  event  of  the  day.  Christine  related  it. 
Her  comments  on  it  and  on  what  it  meant  ran  very  much 
in  the  foregoing  vein,  but  were  modified  by  her  usual  veneer 
of  irony,  for  which  her  friend  made  easy  allowance.  Si- 
bylla had  been  prepared  for  an  ecstasy  of  sympathetic  con- 
gratulation ;  but  it  was  evident  that,  though  congratulation 
might  be  welcomed,  ecstasy  would  be  out  of  place.  Neither 
Christine's  conclusions  from  the  past  nor  her  anticipations 
of  the  future  invited  it. 

"How  reasonable  you  are,  Christine!"  sighed  Sibylla. 
"And  how  immoral!"  she  added,  with  a  smile.  "You're 
not  really  very  sorry  about  it  all,  you  know.  You're  just 
very  glad  the  trouble  is  over.  And  you  don't  expect  a  bit 
more  than  it's  quite  likely  you'll  get !  Do  you  know,  you're 
very  useful  to  me?" 

"My  reasonableness  or  my  immorality?" 

"One's  an  example  and  the  other's  a  warning,"  laughed 
Sibylla. 

"I  don't  think  I'm  immoral.  I've  had  an  awful  lesson, 
and  I  intend  to  profit  by  it.  There'll  be  nothing  more  of 
that  sort,  you  know." 

"Why  not?"  Sibylla  asked,  curious  to  probe  her  friend's 
mind. 

"I  don't  know.  No  temptation — being  sorry  for  John 
— being  afraid — being,  between  ourselves,  thirty-five.  It 
all  sounds  rather  mixed,  but  it  results  in  a  good  resolution. 
And  as  for  the  future — "  She  frowned  just  a  little. 
"Oh,  it'll  be  all  right,  and  a  great  deal  better  than  I've 
been  thinking  lately." 

"I  must  get  more  like  you — not  quite  like  you,  but 
more  like  you.  I  must — I  must!"  Sibylla  declared  vehe- 
mently. "Has  being  thirty-five  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it? 
Because  then  I  can  wait  and  hope." 

"I  should  think  it  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it,"  ad- 


4o6  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

mitted  Christine  dispassionately.  "Oh,  well,  I  needn't  run 
myself  down  too  much.  Really  John  has  a  good  deal  to 
say  to  it." 

"I've  Frank  too." 

"Yes,  you  have;  and  you're  in  love  with  your  husband, 
my  dear." 

"That  doesn't  always  make  it  easier." 

"At  any  rate  it  keeps  up  one's  interest  in  the  whole  af- 
fair," smiled  Christine. 

"You're  happy,  anyhow?" 

"Happy?  Yes,  reasonably  happy — and  I  suppose  im- 
morally too.  At  any  rate  I'm  settled,  and  that's  really  a 
comfort  in  its  way." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  care  so  much  about  being  settled. 
Perhaps  I  shall  at  thirty-five !" 

The  idea  of  years  making  any  difference  to  her  moods 
or  her  needs  seemed  rather  a  new  one  to  Sibylla.  Evidently 
she  was  holding  it  in  her  mind  and  turning  it  over  in  her 
thoughts. 

The  idea  was  with  her  still  as  she  sat  rather  silent  at  the 
dinner-table  that  evening.  They  had  a  little  party,  for  all 
the  Raymores  joined  them,  and  young  Mallam  was  there 
also,  their  guest  for  the  night.  Christine  was  very  gay  and 
satirical.  John  watched  her  with  ready  admiration,  but 
less  ready  understanding.  The  young  men  were  rather 
noisy,  toasting  to-morrow's  wedding  to  the  confusion  of 
the  bridegroom  and  the  equal  confusion  of  Eva  Raymore, 
to  whose  not  distant  destiny  both  Jeremy's  words  and 
Jeremy's  eyes  made  references  by  no  means  covert.  Kate 
Raymore  and  her  husband  looked  on  with  the  subdued  and 
tempered  happiness  which  was  the  outcome  of  their  great 
sorrow,  their  triumph  over  it,  and  the  impending  de- 
parture of  their  son,  to  complete  the  working  out  of  his 
atonement.    They  talked  of  the  Selfords  with  some  irony, 


WITH  OPEN  EYES  407 

of  poor  Harriet  Courtland,  of  Tom  and  his  children  with 
a  sympathetic  hopefulness  and  a  touch  of  amusement  at 
the  importance  their  dear  old  Suzette  Bligh  was  assuming 
and  was,  it  seemed,  to  assume  in  the  household.  Sibylla's 
own  thoughts  widened  the  survey,  embracing  in  it  the 
couple  down  at  Old  Mill  House — the  faithful  patient 
woman  whose  love  made  even  the  ridiculous  touching — the 
broken  old  man  who  had  given  the  best  of  his  life  in  expia- 
tion for  a  brief  madness,  and  now  crept  home  to  end  his 
days,  asking  nothing  but  peace,  hoping  at  best  not  to  be 
despised  or  shunned.  Above  in  his  cot  lay  her  little  son, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  scale,  at  the  beginning  of  all  things; 
and  opposite  to  her  was  Grantley  himself,  unbroken,  but 
not  unchanged;  obedient  to  the  lessons,  but  never  put  out 
of  heart  by  them ;  doing  violence  to  what  he  had  held  most 
truly  and  most  preciously  himself  in  order  to  the  search 
and  discovery  of  something  more  true  and  precious  still. 
The  idea  of  the  ever-passing  years  and  of  feelings  and  for- 
tunes appropriate  to  each  stage  of  life  helped  her,  but  was 
not  enough.  There  were  differences  of  minds  too,  of  tem- 
pers and  of  views;  and  every  one  of  them  implied  a  fitting 
in,  perhaps  a  paring  away  here  or  an  addition  there — a 
harmonising;  these  things  must  be  if  the  system  was  to 
work.  Reluctantly  and  gradually  her  ardent  mind,  by 
nature  ever  either  buoyant  in  the  heaven  of  assured  hope 
or  cast  down  to  the  depths  of  despair,  bowed  to  the  middle 
conclusion,  and  consented  to  look  through  the  eyes  of  wis- 
dom and  experience.  Happy  he  who  can  so  look  and  yet 
look  without  bitterness,  who  can  see  calamity  without  de- 
spair, and  accept  partial  success  without  peevishness. 
There  were  the  hopeless  cases.  These  must  be  explained, 
or  left  unexplained,  by  what  creed  or  philosophy  you 
chose  to  hold.  There  were — surely  there  were ! — the  few 
perfect  ones,  where  there  was  not  even  danger,  nor  the 


4o8  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

need  for  effort  or  for  guard.  Of  such  she  had  deemed 
hers  one.  It  had  needed  much  to  open  her  eyes — much 
sorrow  and  wrong  in  her  own  life — much  sorrow,  wrong, 
and  calamity  in  the  lives  which  passed  within  her  view. 
But  her  eyes  were  open  now.  Yet  she  took  courage — she 
took  courage  from  Grantley,  whose  crest  was  not  lowered, 
though  his  heart  was  changed. 

So  spoke  reason,  and  to  it  Sibylla  bowed.  The  array  of 
cases,  the  marshalling  of  instances,  all  that  the  people 
and  the  lives  about  her  had  represented  and  typified — 
their  moral  was  not  to  be  denied.  But  reason  is  not  the 
sole  governor,  nor  even  the  only  teacher.  It  might  open 
her  eyes;  it  might  even  moderate  the  arrogance  of  her 
demands;  it  could  not  change  the  temper  of  her  heart. 
She  was  not  even  chilled,  far  less  embittered.  She  went 
forth  to  meet  life  and  love  as  ardently  as  ever.  The 
change  was  that  she  knew  more  what  these  things  were 
which  she  started  forth  to  welcome,  and  perceived  better 
to  what  she  must  attune  herself.  She  would  hope  and 
enjoy  still.  But  she  asked  no  more  a  privilege  over  her 
fellows.  She  could  hope  as  a  mortal  without  immunity 
from  evil,  and  enjoy  as  one  to  whom  there  is  allotted  a 
portion  of  sorrow — and  not  of  her  own  only,  nor  per- 
haps of  her  making,  nor  of  her  fault,  since  by  her  own 
act  and  by  nature's  will  her  being  was  bound  up  with  the 
being  of  others,  and  her  happiness  or  misery,  success  or 
failure,  lay  in  the  common  fortune  and  the  common  weal. 
For  any  mortal  perfect  independence  is  a  vain  thing  fondly 
imagined — most  vain  and  fond  when  it  is  demanded  to- 
gether with  all  for  which  any  approach  to  it  was  once 
eagerly  abandoned. 

The  battle  was  won.  As  John  Fanshaw  sacrificed  his 
great  grievance,  so  she  hers.  As  old  Mumple  had  ex- 
piated his  fault  and  paid  his  price,  so  she  hers.    As  Grant- 


WITH  OPEN  EYES  409 

ley  schooled  his  heart,  so  she  hers.  She  walked  with  him 
that  night  in  the  garden  while  the  rest  made  merry  with 
games  and  songs  and  jokes  within,  their  gay  laughter 
echoing  down  to  the  old  house  where  the  long-parted  hus- 
band and  wife  sat  at  last  hand  in  hand.  She  bowed  her 
head,  and  put  her  hands  in  Grantley's,  saying : 

"At  the  first  sign  from  you  it  was  easy  to  forgive.  How 
could  I  not  forgive  you?  But  it's  hard  to  ask  to  be  for- 
given, Grantley." 

"It  was  necessary  that  these  things  should  come,"  he 
answered  gravely.  "They  have  come  and  gone.  What 
are  they  now  between  thee  and  me?" 

Wisdom  had  made  her  point,  and  for  awhile  now  she 
wisely  held  her  peace,  leaving  her  work  to  another  who 
should  surely  bring  it  to  an  excellent  issue — to  love,  tem- 
pered by  sorrow  and  self-knowledge,  yet  triumphant,  and 
looking  forward  to  new  days,  new  births,  new  victories. 

"The  old  time  is  done,"  said  Grantley.  "There's  a  new 
dawn.    And,  Sibylla,  the  sunrise  is  golden  still." 

"My  ever  true  lover,  we'll  ride  on  the  downs  to-mor- 
row," said  she. 

"Into  the  gold?"  he  asked,  in  loving  banter. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  bravely.  "Haven't  we  found  the 
way  now?" 

"It  may  be  hard  to  keep  it." 

"We  shall  be  together — you  and  I.  And  more  than 
you  and  me.  And — and — well,  I  intend  to  be  unreason- 
able again  just  for  this  evening!  I'll  expect  everything, 
and  demand  everything,  and  dream  everything  again,  just 
for  to-night — just  for  to-night,  Grantley!" 

She  ended  in  a  merry  laugh,  as  she  stood  opposite  him 
with  dancing  eyes. 

"You're  always  thorough.    I  was  afraid  you  were  going 


4io  DOUBLE   HARNESS 

to  be  a  bit  too  thorough  with  those  delusions.     Need  we 

make  quite  so  clean  a  sweep  of  them?" 

"As  if  I  ever  should!"  Sibylla  sighed. 

"Perhaps  we've  been  doing  one  or  two  of  them  a  little 
injustice?"  he  suggested. 

"We'll  let  them  stay  a  little  bit  and  see  if  they  can  clear 
their  characters,"  said  she.  "There  might  be  one  great 
truth  hidden  among  them." 

"I  rather  fancy  there  is,"  said  Grantley  Imason,  "and 
we'll  have  the  fellow  out  of  his  disguise." 


THE   END 


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IjrENEVA  in  the  early  days  of  the  17th  century; 
a  ruffling  young  theologue  new  to  the  city ;  a 
beautiful  and  innocent  girl,  suspected  of  witch- 
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THE   BETTER  WAY 

Companion  volume  to  "  The  Simple  Life  " 

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